


Pedaling a Bicycle toward Your Arms

by you_idjits



Series: love, in fire and blood [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, DCBB2014, Dean and Cas not talking about stuff, M/M, Post-Season/Series 08, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Yo but it's not that sad, brief mentions of eating disorders, communication issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-31
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2018-02-23 07:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2539790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_idjits/pseuds/you_idjits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas and Dean and Sam hole up in the Bunker after the angels fall. Which would be a nice vacation if it weren’t for Cas and Dean and all the things they can’t talk about.</p><p>Or, a post-season 8 story of Dean and Cas figuring things out. Cas is bad at being human and Dean is bad at being human. It’s not as easy as it should be.</p><p>Written for the DCBB2014</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pedaling a Bicycle toward Your Arms

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted on [tumblr](http://shootingstarcas.tumblr.com/post/101451146191/cas-and-dean-and-sam-hole-up-in-the-bunker-after). Drop me a line there anytime.  
> Art masterpost [here](http://shinytrooper.livejournal.com/585.html)  
> 8tracks [here](http://8tracks.com/you-idjits/the-moon-or-the-stars)  
> Title comes from [The Secret](http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/jeffrey-mcdaniel/the-secret-22/) by Jeffrey McDaniel
> 
> Thank you for reading.

 

 

Dean has been worrying about Sam for fifteen hours.

Dean has been worrying about Cas for fifteen hours.

This is his life now, he muses morosely. The hospital walls are a bright, bright white, and Sam isn’t waking up, and Dean keeps praying to Cas but nothing ever changes.

Well. That’s not entirely true. The doctors say Sam is getting better, say it’s a miracle. The antibiotics are working, fighting this “unknown infection.” So Sam _will_ wake up, at least they think so. Give it a couple of days, they say.

Dean sends out a prayer to Cas, wherever he is: _Sam’s gonna be all right, I think. Cas, if you hear this, he’s gonna be all right. But you gotta get here, when you can. I- we need you here._

It’s scary – terrifying – sitting by Sam’s hospital bed. He keeps expecting Sam to blink awake, to say “Dean?” in that sleepy confused voice of his. Dean hates this, the anticipation, the waiting. He wonders if this is how Sam felt, all those years ago, after the car crash with Dad.

He keeps himself busy. He talks to the nurses, tries to get as thorough an understanding of Sam’s condition as he can. It’s a load of medical jargon, but Dean’s not a complete idiot, and he’s been in a lot of hospitals over the years.

And then there’s the worrying about Cas. Five hours go by, nothing. It’s been a day since the angels fell. Dean still doesn’t know what happened, or why. If it had anything to do with what Castiel was doing with Metatron.

Dean remembers that feeling, in the bar, thinking he might never see Cas again. That Heaven might close for good, with its favorite winged rebel locked inside. But this, the not-knowing, is worse. Cas could be dead, or hurt, or trapped. And Dean can do nothing but wait for a sign.

Eventually that sign comes – a ringing phone, in the late hours of the afternoon. Dean ducks out of the hospital room before answering.

“Who’s this?” he asks gruffly. If it’s a telemarketer, he swears he’ll-

“Dean,” Cas says, like it’s a lifeboat.

“Cas? That you?” Dean tips his head back and lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank God. Man, I thought you were de-”

“It wasn’t my fault,” Cas blurts. “The Fall. Well, it was, but I didn’t- Metatron tricked me. You were right, Dean.”

“It’s fine, Cas, we’ll figure that out. I believe you. Just- where’ve you been, man? I prayed to you.”

There’s a long, long pause before Cas replies. “I’m somewhere in Colorado. Dean, Metatron… He took my grace. I’m human now.”

He feels his chest caving in. “Human? No wings, no healing? Eat, sleep, and bleed human?”

“Something like that, yeah. I don’t- I had to find a phone, and… Where are you? Where’s Sam?”

Dean purses his lips, glances back at the door to the hospital room. “Sam’s not doing so well, Cas. The trials… They messed him up real bad. We’re at Linwood Memorial Hospital, and he hasn’t woken up.”

Silence, and then, “I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll take a bus, so it might be a day or two, but-”

“No, Cas! No way!” A passing nurse glances warily over at Dean’s sharp words, so he lowers his voice. “Look, if you’re human, you need to get somewhere safe. There are probably angels after you, right? Now you hump your ass to the Bunker, you hole up until Sam and I can meet you down there.”

“No, Dean,” Cas says firmly, “I’m coming to you.”

“Dude, safety first.”

“I’m coming to you,” Cas repeats. “I care about Sam, too. We’ll put up sigils. We’ll take precautions.”

And oh, God, Dean wants Cas here. He wants him so much it hurts. But, “Cas, I don’t want you-”

 _Getting hurt_ is how he planned on ending that sentence, but Cas interprets it differently. “If you don’t want me there I understand it, Dean. Just say so. But if it’s about my safety, I can handle myself.”

Dean fumbles over his words trying to correct Cas. “No, that’s not at all- of course I- I mean, but what if you- well, and the angels- Fuck.” He licks his lips, takes a deep breath. “Yeah, uh, here’s the address.” He is weak, too weak to push Cas away.

“Thank you, Dean. I’ll be there shortly.” As Dean starts to pull the phone from his ear, Cas adds, “And Dean? I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. There’s nothing else to say, not after all the apologies Cas has had to make. Dean doesn’t know yet how to forgive him for everything: Purgatory, the crypt, and now this. Yet every time Cas seeks forgiveness, Dean finds a way to give it, somehow. That’s what being family means.

The line clicks, and in the emptiness that follows Dean realizes just how much he misses Cas. It’s something empty just underneath his ribs that fades at the sound of Castiel’s voice.

Dean goes back to Sam’s bedside, rubs his phone between his hands. Waits some more. Drinks coffee. Adds new wards to the walls, hidden behind shelves where the hospital staff won’t find them. Waits some more.

The nurse comes in, a young woman with a soothing voice and smooth dark skin. In other circumstances, Dean’d be hitting on her without hesitation. But Sam… And- and Cas. There’s Cas.

“His vitals are improving,” she says. She writes in loopy cursive on a clipboard. “We didn’t think… It seems like the infection is passing without complications.”

“Thanks,” Dean says wearily, wiping a hand down his face. “You know when he’s gonna, y’know, wake up?”

“It’ll be touch and go for a while. A few days, at least?” She smiles at Dean in that mildly condescending way nurses do. “You should go home, get some rest.”

Dean laughs shakily. Home is a car parked downstairs, really, and anyway, Dean knows enough about the bad shit out to get the Winchesters that he’s not letting Sam go unprotected. Especially when Sam’s so close to death already. “I’m fine here.” He can wait.

Cas appears twelve hours later, sweeping into the hospital room, eyes bright and hair ruffled. His gaze falls first on Sam, then slides to Dean in the chair. “I came as quickly as I could,” he says. No need to state the obvious: angel express isn’t an option anymore.

“Hey,” says Dean, shifting out of a slouch. He lifts a few fingers in greeting.

“Sam is-”

“Getting better, according to the doc. Still asleep though. Those trials really did a number on him.” Dean looks Castiel up and down with a critical eye. His clothes are rumpled, knuckles scraped, jaw unshaven. Wasn’t exaggerating the human thing, then.

Castiel, too, seems to be drinking in Dean’s appearance. Their gazes cross.

Dean clears his throat. “So the angels fell.”

“I don’t know where to start.” Cas sinks into the chair opposite Dean, Sam’s sleeping form between them. Slowly, he tells of Metatron’s betrayal, of falling from Heaven.

“I only made it here on the kindness of other humans,” Cas says. “Water, money. The phone I used to call you. It’s all very new.”

“And you’re okay?” Well, “okay” has become a relative term for them in the past few years.

‘It’s… different.” Cas shifts in his chair, eyes dropping to his hands.

“Yeah, I bet.” Dean snorts.

An awkward beat follows. Neither one is sure of what to say. Cas’s eyes wander, combing over the room.

“You’ve properly warded the place, I assume?”

“Yeah. Not anywhere noticeable, though.”

“And you’re armed?”

Dean pulls aside his jacket to reveal Ruby’s knife. His gun is tucked into his waistband as always, and there’s a silver knife in his boot. “You?”

Castiel lifts an angel blade from his coat pocket. They sink back into silence.

This shouldn’t be that hard. Their banter has always come easily before. But he’s just so tired now. And Cas is different as a human, more somber.

Hours pass in uneasy silence. It’s only when Cas stands, stumbles, and reaches for the armrest of the chair for support that Dean sits up.

“Cas? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Cas assures him. “This body – my body, now – feels weak. My stomach hurts, I think.”

“Hurts? Like you’re getting sick?”

“No, more like… emptiness, a gnawing emptiness.”

Dean sinks back down. “Dammit, Cas,” he growls. “When was the last time you ate?”

“I-” Cas stops, opens and closes his mouth. “I haven’t.”

“In two days?” Dean can’t help the worry leaking into his voice. “Cas, you’re human now, you have to eat. Come on, let’s-” He stops, looks down at Sam. They can’t abandon Sam. “Fuck. Okay, you stay here. Don’t pass out on me, buddy. I’m just gonna go down to the hospital cafeteria. I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Okay,” Cas says. His voice is streaked with fatigue. Dean can’t believe he didn’t notice earlier that something was wrong.

He sprints down to the cafeteria. But then, once there, he takes a long time to pick out foods. This is Cas’s first meal as a human. Dean has a high enough appreciation for food that he wants it to be good. He wants to make Cas happy, to make his face light up.

Something strikes Dean, standing there between mashed potatoes and the salad bar. Cas is human now. He’s gonna find clothes and food and music to love. He’s gonna need someone to show him the ropes. Dean wants to be that someone.

He shakes his head to clear that thought, store it away for later processing. Now is not the time. He scoops up five or six plates of different stuff for Cas to try. Hospital food would not in any way be Dean’s first choice for an introduction to food, but it’ll have to do for now. At least he can give Cas options, let him decide what he likes best. Later, when they’re home, Dean’ll really do something. Make pie and steak and breakfast sandwiches, show Cas what it really means to be human.

He stops in the middle of the hallway. That’s assuming Cas wants to come back, wants to stay. He’s never wanted to stay before; why would he start now?

Dean takes a slow breath to calm himself before the panic rises. He can’t do this now, can’t freak out, not with Sam hospitalized and Cas weakened. It’s Dean’s job to be the strong one. He has to stay collected.

He pushes back into the room, lays out the food in front of Cas. Cas eyes it all with varying degrees of disgust.

“I know it’s not much. Hospital food, man. But you gotta eat; it’ll make you feel better, I promise.” Dean watches Cas closely, watches him reach for the plate of pizza and take a tentative bite.

Chew, swallow, shake of the head. “No,” Cas says, and pushes it away.

Dean takes the abandoned slice for himself. It’s been a while since he ate, too.

“You need to eat regularly,” Dean says quietly. He watches Cas try salad and then casserole. “At least twice a day, preferably three times. You need to sleep, minimum four hours a night. Shower, shave, etc. It’s a whole new ballgame.”

Castiel nods but says nothing. Dean wants him to say something, dammit, to respond. To tell him what he’s thinking, feeling. But nothing. Cas has never been very good at talking.

(Or maybe Dean has never been very good at listening.)

So they eat in silence, Dean hovering at Cas’s shoulder, both of them pretending to watch Sam to avoid conversation. The day passes painfully, slowly, without change. They take turns sleeping.

In the morning, the nurse returns, the one Dean likes. He thinks her name’s Kelly.

She seems surprised to find a second visitor sleeping in the spare chair. “Who’s this?” she asks, jerking a thumb.

“This is Cas,” Dean says. “He’s a… friend.”

Castiel shuffles awake at the mention of his name. “Dean? Is Sam…”

“Still sleeping,” Kelly says, looking over the machine at Sam’s bedside. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

Once she leaves, Dean turns to Cas. “After Sam’s awake, when we know he’ll be okay, we’ll sneak outta here. He’ll be safer at the Bunker.” Though, surprisingly, they’ve had no trouble yet with angels or demons or anything. Maybe, for once, the Winchester luck is finally coming through.

“Right,” says Cas, “the Bunker. You and Sam. And I’ll…”

“You’ll come too,” Dean says.

Cas looks to the window, licks his lips. Waits just long enough to make Dean nervous. They haven’t talked about this. What if Dean is expressing something that isn’t reciprocated? He hates putting himself out there in his prayers to Cas, hates the vulnerability of it, but it’s ten times worse in person. Here, he can see Cas’s response. It’s like they’re back at the crypt. Dean says something real, something important, and Cas just disappears.

So Dean stutters and follows with, “I mean, only if you’ve got nowhere else to go. Makes no difference to me.” Better to preempt the rejection.

Cas’s eyes drop to the floor. Dean can’t help but notice the way his eyelashes brush his cheeks. “I see. Of course. Well, I’ll consider your offer.”

This wasn’t supposed to be like this. Dean was so worried at first that Cas might be dead, he didn’t think of what would happen if they were reunited. Cas hasn’t stayed around for this long in, well, years. They haven’t had this kind of time together.

What if Dean’s imagining this, this friendship between them? Maybe it was built out of necessity, a common enemy. And then all Dean’s other friends were dead, and… But when it comes down to it, they have nothing to say to each other.

(Or too much to say.)

Cas is here for Sam, Dean reminds himself. Cas is here because Sam is sick. It has nothing to do with Dean. He didn’t hear Dean’s prayer.

Maybe he didn’t hear Dean in the crypt, either. Maybe he was buried too far underneath the layers of Naomi’s control to hear Dean’s pleas. Maybe it’s for the best that they’ve never talked about it, about what Dean said. That they brush it off, forget it ever happened.

(Not that Dean’s likely to forget anytime soon. That was his best friend, snapping his arm, beating him down, lifting the blade. He knows now about Naomi, but that doesn’t diminish the raw fear he felt in the moment. Dean has never been more afraid, not even in Hell.)

Dean looks across the bed at Cas, slumped in his chair, so ordinary and human. This is not the man who led a garrison into Hell. This is not the man who slaughtered his brothers and sisters. This is Cas.

Cas. Cas, who died and died again for Dean. Cas, who loved too much, who tried too hard to make things right. Cas, who had to apologize too many times, but can’t seem to stop. Dammit, of course he’s Dean’s friend. He’s family.

Dean wants to say, _Come home. I want you to come home, I want you to stay. With me._ Those are the words, the right words. He can feel them on his tongue. But his throat closes up, his lips feel heavy. He can’t say them.

And then Sam wakes up, and Dean forgets all about those words.

It’s slow at first, shifting, mumbling. Eyes fluttering. And then, slowly, Sam drags himself out of his sleep, opens his eyes.

“Dean?” is his first word, as it usually is when he finds himself in a hospital. “Dean, what are you- Cas? Is that you?”

“Hello, Sam,” Cas says in that familiar gravelly tone. He leans forward into Sam’s line of vision and smiles wearily.

“What’s going on?” Sam slurs. He tries and fails to sit up.

“Whoa, easy there, tiger. You’re still recovering.” Dean pushes Sam down with a gentle hand. “We’re at Linwood Memorial Hospital. You just sort of collapsed, buddy, outside the church. Drove you here as fast as I could.”

“How long?”

“About three, four days ago.”

“Four days?” Sam jerks up at that, wincing in pain when he does. “But Crowley – and the angels, what about the angels?”

“They fell,” says Cas, “because I made yet another mistake.”

Dean glances over, eyes meeting Cas’s for barely a moment. He’s so used to seeing shame there that it barely registers. “Hey, no, Cas is exaggerating. Metatron betrayed him. It wasn’t his fault. Happens to the best of us.” He looks back to Sam, who still looks out of his depth in the new surroundings. “How’re you feeling, sport?”

Sam shifts, curls an arm protectively around his midsection. “Like I just spent a week in a vampire nest. What about the trials, did they…”

“Hell’s still open, as far as we can tell,” says Dean. “I left Crowley bound up in that church, so as far as we know he’s still there. And if he’s not, well, things have been quiet so far. He’s minding his own business now.”

“And Abaddon?”

“Abaddon?” Dean looks from Sam to Castiel. “What about her? I thought we left that bitch with no hands.”

Sam shakes his head, shaggy hair falling into his eyes. “She showed up in the church, attacked me and Crowley. Smoked out. You haven’t heard anything?”

Dean looks down at his phone. He’s talked to some other hunters over the past few days, compared notes. Most hunters didn’t know of the existence of angels before the Fall, but now they’ve been forced into believing. Dean also checked in with Jody, Kevin, and a couple of other friends. No word on any Knights of Hell.

“Nah, I got nothing. We should get back to the Bunker, see if we can find anything in the old Men of Letters archives.”

“What about you, Cas? Are you sticking around this time?” Sam asks.

Castiel looks to Dean, not Sam, when he replies. “I think I’d like to,” he says, “if you guys don’t mind.”

Dean nods. “Sounds good. I guess you’ve gotta learn to be human from someone; why not us?”

Then Sam and Cas fall into a discussion of Metatron’s spell and the potential ways to reverse it. Dean sits in contented silence, listening to the brains talk. He’s got a few ideas of his own, things he’ll test-run once they’re back home, but nothing to contribute here. They’d probably look at him weirdly if he tried to join in their nerd-talk. Sam’s gotta better ideas, anyway.

When the conversation lulls, Dean says, “When you’re feeling up to it, Sam, let’s head out. You know the drill.” When you’re a Winchester, you don’t wait around in hospitals. The quicker you’re on the road, the quicker you’re back to work.

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Let’s go.”

So they pull out the IV and lift Sam into a wheelchair. He’s not even strong enough to walk. A small part of Dean wonders if maybe waiting another day wouldn’t hurt, but no. Not with all the angels out there, and now Abaddon too. They gotta hightail it.

Dean distracts the nurse at the front desk while Cas wheels Sam to the car. Still in his hospital gown, it takes Sam a minute to struggle into a pair of soft sweats and his old brown hoodie.

“I’m gonna take the back seat,” Sam mumbles, crawling inside. “Take a nap.” Minutes later he’s snoring quietly, leaving Dean and Cas on their own.

They shoot the breeze for a bit, dancing around the elephant in the room – Cas’s new status as a human. Dean isn’t sure what it means for them, if Cas’ll stick around for good this time. In the past he’s always flown off at the drop of a hat. There was a little while, during the Apocalypse, when Dean thought maybe…

No. Cas has only ever stayed with them out of necessity. It’s not like Dean has a lot to offer: good music, a cocked gun, an unreliable wallet. Companionship, and shoddy companionship at that. Not enough to keep Cas around, certainly. Cas deserves better examples of humanity.

Just after midnight, Dean pulls over to the interstate shoulder. He can’t fall asleep behind the wheel. “Shit.” He rubs a hand over his face. “We gotta check into a motel, or…” He looks back at Sam, sound asleep.

“I can drive,” Cas says.

“No, you can’t.”

“I can learn.”

“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you drive my baby,” Dean says. Just the thought wakes him right up.

“You need your sleep. Sam, too. We have to get him back to the Bunker. I’ll drive and we’ll reach Lebanon by morning.”

“But-”

“It’s the best idea, and you know it. The road is wide and empty.”

“But you don’t know how to drive.”

“I’m a thousand-year-old celestial entity. Or, at least, I was.” He frowns. “I learn quickly.”

Dean sighs, drops his head. He steps out and slams the door behind him. When Cas registers what’s happening, he too circles to the front of the car.

“Not one scratch.” Dean lays a hand on Cas’s arm, just below the elbow. Even through the jacket Cas is warm, warmer than he ever was as an angel. He smells human too, like sweat and salt and a soft musk.

“It’ll be fine, Dean,” says Cas, and he brushes by to the driver’s side.

So Dean gives Cas a few rudimentary lessons, walks him through the first mile and a half. Watches silently for another three, until he’s sure of Castiel’s driving skills. Slowly, his eyes begin to droop, the road fading to dark.

When he blinks awake, the sky is lightening. More importantly, they’re not dead. He shuffles into a sitting position. His coat, wrapped around like a blanket, falls open. “Hey,” he says quietly.

Cas glances over, then back to the road. In the clean gray light of the early morning, his eyes are paler than usual, the kind of pale blue Dean’s learned to associate with the grace of an angel.

“I didn’t crash,” Cas says. A note of stubborn pride lies beneath the words.

“I noticed.” Dean laughs. “We’ll make a proper human of you yet.”

Something shifts in Cas at that, nearly imperceptible. A crease at the corner of his mouth, curled fingers.

“Sam slept through the night?”

“Like a virgin.”

“Like a- what?” Dean blinks, looks between Sam and the road, tries to make sense of it. “Dude, you mean like a _baby_. Like a Virgin’s Madonna.”

“Ah. Yeah, that would make more sense. Although, in my experience, babies are more prone to tears and crying.”

Dean turns toward the window to hide his smile. There’s the Cas he knows. “Where are we?”

“We passed into Missouri about ten minutes ago.”

“You wanna stop for breakfast or push through?”

Cas looks down at his stomach, which grumbles at the mention of food.

“Guess that’s an answer, then,” Dean says. “Pull off at the next exit.”

Sam is still asleep when they pull into the lot of a 24-hour diner. It’s just after six in the morning, the diner filled with sleepy residents on their way to work. Dean orders coffee and pancakes. When Cas looks indecisively over the menu, Dean orders the same for him.

“I developed a fondness for coffee while traveling with the angel tablet,” Castiel says, thumb running over the laminated menu.

“Yeah, what did you do, all that time? Sam and I were worried about you.” The words slip out before he can stop them. Dean busies himself with his own menu, but he can feel Cas’s eyes on him.

A pause before Cas responds. “I jumped through space, shifting my location across hundreds of Biggerson’s. The scientific theory behind it is too complicated to understand.” What he means is, _you’re too thick to understand it, Dean._

“But you didn’t think – not once – of coming home?”

Cas’s lips thin into a flat line. “It was unsafe for me to return to Heaven, Dean. You knew that.”

“Or to return to me,” Dean finishes, because he hadn’t meant Heaven at all. “That’s what you said, wasn’t it? You had to protect the tablet from Naomi and from me.”

“It was complicated.”

Dean can feel those words again, forming in his mouth. _Come home. I want you to come home, I want you to stay. With me._ He opens his mouth to say them, counts to three, takes a deep breath.

The waitress comes before he has the chance, pours their coffee, makes small talk. And by the time she’s gone, the moment’s passed.

They move on to lighter conversation, then. At one point, Dean leans forward for the syrup, only to catch a whiff of something foul. “Cas? Have you, y’know, changed your clothes at all?”

Cas looks down, plucks at the lapel of his trenchcoat. “I’ve been washing as best as I can, as you told me. But the clothes… no. I noticed you’ve been rotating through yours, but as I have none…”

“Fuck, dude. We gotta get you some new duds.”

“I… I like this coat.” Cas frowns. Dean’s been so used to seeing Cas in the same clothes all the time, for the past five years, that he didn’t think anything of it these past five days.

“After breakfast I’ll get you something clean from my bag. Besides, aren’t you hot in that suit?”

“I suppose. Aren’t humans always a little overheated? You certainly wear a superfluous number of layers.”

Dean looks down at his coat, plaid shirt, and tee. “Hey, my clothes are fine! They do their job, anyway. We should get you some like them. Some sturdy boots.”

Cas looks at Dean’s clothes too, something indecipherable in his gaze. “I’d like that.”

“Or maybe sweaters. I don’t know, you seem like a sweater kind of guy. They’re kind of girly, huh?”

Castiel huffs. “I don’t appreciate you using that adjective like it’s a negative thing. And I have no opinion on sweaters, nor their relation to gender.”

Dean laughs, shakes his head. “Okay, sure. Well, we’ll take you shopping, once we’re settled in. Until then you can share with me, sound good?”

Castiel grunts. “Sam is, I suppose, a little tall. And perhaps I should get some suits, as well, for when I need to pose as a federal agent? I noticed you and Sam both have decent collections.”

Dean smiles thinking of his wardrobe back home. “Yeah, I don’t know, I guess I’ve gotten more into that kind of stuff. Suits are cool, you know? And chicks dig- wait, what? Did you say for when you’re playing FBI? You’re gonna hunt with us?”

Cas must hear something in Dean’s tone that makes his shoulders hunch. “I just assumed- nevermind. It just crossed my mind.”

“Oh. Well, that’d be- Yeah. Um.” Dean swallows. “I guess we could splurge, yeah.”

Cas’s frown deepens. “If it’s too much I can just… I was under the impression one has to have a well-fitting suit to make a strong first impression. From your comments over the years I guess Jimmy’s isn’t quite on par.” He twists his tie in his hands, eyes cast downwards. It flips backwards again as soon as he lets go. Dammit, Dean’s fond of that backwards tie.

(But then again, Cas in a tailored suit, all clean lines and- oh, maybe a blue tie like this one, something to bring out his eyes… Dammit, Dean’s turning into a girl.)

“No, dude, it’s fine. Really. You’re right; a good suit says everything about a man. And you have to think shoes too, and coats, and- yeah, we’ll definitely take you shopping soon. Once Sam is better.”

After they’re done, Dean digs through his bag for an old pair of jeans – a little short around the ankles, so they should be perfect for Cas. Though Cas is shorter, he’s built, all coiled muscles, the lines of a runner – not that Dean’s noticed. When he reemerges from the diner restroom a few minutes later, pushing the sleeves of the grey Henley up to his elbows, he looks like a goddamn hunter. He folds the trenchcoat over a few times before storing it beneath the passenger seat.

“This shirt is much softer than mine was.” Castiel rubs the hem between his fingers. Thermals are warm, soft, and durable – Dean’s personal favorites. And Cas looks good in it, not that Dean’d ever tell him that. Really good.

They make it back to the Bunker in record time. Dean and Cas unpack the car in two trips, then return to help Sam inside. He stumbles to his bedroom, collapsing with a _whump_ on the bed. Dean promises to find him an IV, or at least some painkillers.

But then there’s Cas to think of, Cas who hesitates on the balcony of the main room, hands clenched on the railing. He shifts back and forth like he’s trying on new shoes.

“Cas? What are you still doing up there?” Dean asks, looking up at him from the ground floor. “Dude, come on in.”

‘I haven’t been here since-” He frowns. Doesn’t finish the sentence, but Dean knows how it ends anyway. Cas apologized and Dean said _no, that’s not enough_.

But something has changed. Maybe it’s in seeing Cas so human. Maybe it was that evening in the bar when he realized Cas was willing to _die_ to right his wrongs. _Has_ died, time and time again. Stayed in Purgatory as some kind of twisted penance.

And Dean was torn up over that for months – _months._ He was angry and hurt and drinking himself into oblivion because Cas wasn’t there. He knows he can’t go through that again. But maybe it’s only now that he can recognize that, can offer forgiveness.

He looks up at Castiel on the balcony, hovering over him. He feels something swell in his heart. Dean doesn’t feel strong emotion anymore, hasn’t in a long time, maybe since before Hell. But in this moment, he feels a wave of forgiveness wash over him.

“Let me show you the Bunker,” he says, and watches as Cas descends the stairs to meet at eye level. Finally, for the first time in a long time, here they are. Together on the ground floor of Dean’s home.

They cross the war room, Dean letting a finger trail along the map table, down into the library. Beyond that, to the hallway of spare bedrooms. They pass Sam’s, and Dean ducks a head through the doorway to check on him. Still sound asleep.

“And this is yours,” Dean says. They stop at the door across the hall from his own. He’d refused to let Kevin or Sam take this one, and Sam hadn’t asked. After years of living together in motel rooms, Dean’s nightmares waking Sam every other night, Dean wonders if Sam isn’t grateful to have a few soundproof walls between them.

He pauses, gauging Castiel’s reaction. “I mean, if you want it. I just thought, if you’re gonna stick around for a while, you should have your own room and stuff.”

Castiel puts a hand on the doorknob, but makes no move to twist it. “May I see your room?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. Right here.” They cross into Dean’s room. His room. He likes the sound of that, likes the way his guns and knives look on the walls. He likes that it’s still exactly as he left it.

Cas moves in a slow circle, taking in the Purgatory machete, the photo of Mary, the stack of cassette tapes. “You live here.”

“Yeah. Well, mostly sleep, actually. That’s kind of what the bed’s for.”

“You prayed to me from here.” Cas sinks onto the bed in the same space Dean sat then.

“I thought you didn’t hear me.” Because Castiel, the Castiel he knows, always comes when Dean needs him. Always.

Except- except during the war with Raphael. When Cas was lying to him, ignoring his prayers, ignoring his pleas. And this past year, it’s felt like that all over again. Cas kept disappearing, no explanation, no apology. And he didn’t answer Dean’s prayer here, when Sam was sick and Dean needed him.

Cas seems to have followed Dean’s train of thought. He looks up, eyes remorseful. “I did, but I couldn’t- I wanted to. Naomi.” As if that explains everything.

Castiel can’t hear his prayers anymore, now that he’s human. But at least that means he can’t ignore them either.

(He came, in the hospital, when Dean needed him. That’s what matters. Things are different now. Dean can’t explain it, but they are. Cas being human changes things between them.)

“Let’s get you in the shower,” Dean says gruffly. He hates thinking about this kind of stuff, hates airing it between them. These things should be left alone, to sort themselves out.

Dean shoves Castiel into the shower room with a change of clothes, shows him how to work the knobs, points out the various shampoos and conditioners Sam prefers. Gets as far away as possible once the water starts running.

He goes to the kitchen to start cooking. Cas will need to try lots of foods to find the ones he likes, right? Dean starts simple, eggs and toast and soup, and then more elaborate, letting a steak thaw and tossing vegetables in a frying pan. By the time the shower cuts out, half the counters are covered with plates.

Cas walks in moments later, toweling off wet hair. His hair sticks up in all directions, the way it used to before he started taking care of his human vessel.

(It’s not a vessel anymore, it’s his body, isn’t it? That face in the mirror will be the face he sees every day until he dies. Dean wonders if Castiel fears the impermanence of being human.)

Cas surveys the spread, watches Dean shove peanut butter toast into his hands. “But Dean, I…” He trails off, looks down at the plate. The dejection in his eyes makes Dean stop mid-motion.

“Yeah?”

“I’m not hungry,” he admits. He sets the plate gingerly on the counter, like he’s afraid it’ll break upon contact.

Everything slows down, the air between them shattering. “Right. Of course. Stupid. I should have asked.” Dean shoves past him, reaches for glass Tupperwares, starts putting the food away. “No, that’s okay, we’ll save it for later. Forget it.” He doesn’t know why this makes him angry. Why there’s this tension in the front of his chest. He shouldn’t be angry at Cas. It’s just food. It’s just food.

“I’m sorry. You made all this food for me. I don’t mean to-”

“Cas, leave it.” The words come out sharp, biting, and Castiel takes a step backwards. “I get it.”

He slams the lid closed on a jar, jerks the refrigerator open with unnecessary force. Dammit. He doesn’t know why he’s getting upset over the food. Everything was going so well, except now Cas isn’t eating the food he made. _Why isn’t Cas eating the food he made?_

Cas steps forward, starts spooning scrambled eggs into a container. His motions are patient, silent. Apologetic, almost.

Dean bites his lip to keep from swearing. This was stupid of him. They ate barely an hour ago. Of course Cas isn’t hungry.

“I liked the shower,” says Cas, a quiet murmur. “Feeling clean… it’s nice. I never understood that feeling when I was an angel. I thought humans only kept personal hygiene to please those around them, but there’s something gratifying about this feeling.” He grapples for the right words, snaps closed a plastic lid. “My skin feels alive, like thousands of tiny fireworks are dancing across the surface.”

The words soothe Dean’s frustration, smoothing over his raw nerves. Castiel’s voice is slow, sure, the scrape of sandpaper. Dean leans against the stove, hands inches from the still-hot burner.

“I’m sorry,” Cas tries to say again, but Dean cuts him off.

“Don’t apologize. Just- don’t.”

He waits in the tense silence for Cas to do something, say something. But when Dean turns around moments later, the kitchen is empty.

 **

The peace is broken now. Like ghosts, they drift through the Bunker, skirting around one another. Castiel lowers his eyes when he passes by, footsteps soft. Dean buries himself in the basement of the Bunker, reorganizing old files. Normally a job he’d hate, it becomes a means of occupation, a way to pass the time.

(A way to avoid Cas, but he doesn’t say that.)

Sam sleeps still, to the point where Dean begins to worry, but he knows his brother is still healing. They can’t go out on a hunt until Sam is up and running again, right? It seems safer to stay here, in the dark quiet of the Bunker.

He keeps tabs on the news, though. The falling angels were explained away by some meteorological phenomenon, as these things always are with humans. Dean calls other hunters, checks in with Garth. Kevin went to stay in the houseboat again while they were in Linwood, when they weren’t sure when Sam would be waking up. Though he worries about the vague angel activity he hears about, clashes between various garrisons, right now Dean has more important worries. Like Sam.

Sam, who eventually wakes up, only for long enough to eat some soup, watch some TV, and crash again. Still, it’s encouraging. The next day he wakes up for a little longer.

And Castiel… Dean doesn’t know what he does with his time, where he goes. He fades in and out of the war room. Dean thinks he spends a lot of time in his room, but the door is always locked. After that scene in the kitchen, Dean doesn’t know how to approach him.

In the end, he doesn’t have to, because Cas approaches him. It’s mid-morning, a Thursday, and Dean is hunched over his laptop in main library, reading about some local “animal attacks.”

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says, and Dean nearly jumps out of his chair. He hasn’t heard Cas’s voice in a week.

“Cas. Uh. Hey.”

“I need your help.”

“Sure, what is it?” He forces himself to sound casual, like he hasn’t been grappling with the chasm between them for days.

Castiel rubs the side of his jaw tentatively. He’s got the beginnings of a real beard going on there. “I don’t- I don’t know how to shave. This feeling is rather unpleasant. It reminds me of Purgatory.”

Dean tenses at the mention of the word. “You want me to teach you?”

“Yes, please.” And now Castiel looks more uncomfortable, frown lines creasing his face. “If you’re not too busy, that is.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I could use a break from all this research.” He shuts his laptop, pushes to his feet. Tries to sound nonchalant when he says, “Being cooped up like this is kind of boring, huh?”

Castiel follows him five steps behind, an exact distance, like he’s restraining himself somehow. He feels Castiel’s hesitance, discomfort, even from the distance. Cas isn’t like humans, doesn’t show his emotions overtly. But Dean’s grown accustomed to the subtler cues.

He leads Castiel to the Bunker bathroom, a row of sinks and a wide mirror. Rummages in a cabinet for his straight razor, because he sure as hell isn’t sharing his disposable one. Dean used to prefer a straight razor, the simplicity of it, the dull shine of the blade. After Hell, he can barely look at one without wanting to vomit. But this is for Cas, right?

“We gotta get you some stuff,” Dean mumbles, fingers seeking out the jar of shaving cream as well. “Clothes, too.”

“You keep saying that,” says Cas, “but you make no move to follow through on it.” It’s a pointed comment, not intended to be polite. Dean figures he deserves it.

“Where’ve you been getting your clothes, by the way?” Dean nods to Castiel’s current getup, a navy waistcoat over a pinstriped button-down, narrow slacks. He looks good, admittedly, though Dean misses the trenchcoat. He wonders what happened to it.

“The Men of Letters kept extensive wardrobes,” Cas says. “In my free time I went exploring.”

“Right.” Dean feels twinge of regret. He should be the one showing Cas around, giving him new clothes. Yet here he stands, frozen dumbly in place, razor in one hand, shaving cream in the other. Unable to make a goddamn move.

“So,” Castiel says, “shaving?”

“Right. Uh, right.” Like a broken record. “Shaving. It’ll be easier with a disposable razor, but I only have one of those, and- yeah, first tip of shaving, don’t share disposable razors. So you can use my straight razor for now. Though you probably shouldn’t _use_ it, use it, because straight razors are ridiculously hard to get the hang of. I’m talking years of practice. Then again, you are thousands of years old, you can probably handle one razor. Sorry, I didn’t mean to talk down to you or whatever. I was just thinking, you know, I don’t want you to cut yourself. And with that beard you’ve got going on shaving will be hard enough anyway, so I don’t know how you’ll-”

“Dean.” Cas cuts him off, and Dean realizes with an embarrassed flush that he’s babbling. “Will you do it?”

“Will I-” Dean swallows, hard, pushes away the pile of words he’d just spat out. “Sure. Uh, yeah, sure.”

He balances his shaving cream on the edge of a sink, mixes it with his brush. “Sorry, I’m just gonna…” He steps into Castiel’s personal space, so their shoes almost touch, and puts a hand on Cas’s jaw to steady it. Their knees press together for stability. Cas backs up against a sink.

He wipes the shaving cream over Cas’s stubble gently, with the pads of his fingers. This stance is too close for comfort, too intimate. They are breathing the same air. Dean feels a rising swell of panic but pushes it away. This is Cas. This is just Cas.

He picks up the razor, holding it to the curve of Castiel’s neck. He starts slow, gentle tugs at the base, dark wiry curls falling between his fingers. Cas swallows and Dean moves his hand with the movement, careful not to slip. He can feel Castiel’s eyes on his face.

“Dean.”

“Let’s not, okay? Not right now. Please.”

Castiel sighs, but goes silent again. There is something precious about the quiet. It’s not _comfortable,_ per se, but it’s nice. Soft.

Dean accidentally nicks the side of Cas’s jaw, and the sight of Cas’s blood almost makes him drop the razor. “Shit,” he says, stumbling backwards, putting as much distance between himself and Cas as he can. He’d forgotten that Cas is human now, can bleed. Just like-

_Back in the Pit, razor in hand, and the soul is screaming, begging, but he sidles closer, holds the razor like a barber, shaves a whole layer of skin from the face. Smiles and watches the blood drip over his fingers._

“Dean?”

“Shit, I-” Dean can feel the blade of the razor pressing into his own hand now, the pain a welcome relief, sharp and cold. And then Cas is there, gently tugging the straight razor from his hand, moving to run the cut under the faucet. It’s not deep but it stings anyway, the familiar sting of Hell, and _fuck_ , Dean hasn’t done something like this, not on purpose, in years.

He wants to apologize, to say something to Cas, but nothing comes out. Cas is still looking down, dark eyelashes fanning out, a small frown creasing his lips. But he says nothing.

“I- Cas, I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s fine; it doesn’t hurt. Does your hand hurt?”

“A little. It was an accident.”

“I know.”

Castiel cups Dean’s injured hand in his own rough ones, the way he used to before healing a wound. Only no light spreads from his palms to Dean’s anymore. He sighs and lets go. He looks ridiculous, jaw half-shaved, splotches of shaving cream, blood dripping from the nick on his cheek.

“I should get a band-aid for you. Fuck, your first time getting a shave and I messed it up.”

“It’s fine. Do you need a bandage for your own hand, or can you finish?”

Dean looks down at his hands. The cut isn’t deep at all, but… “Cas, there’s a reason I don’t use a straight razor anymore. If I pick that up again-”

“I trust you,” Cas says. He folds the razor handle into Dean’s uninjured hand and lifts it to his own neck. Steadies the blade against his throat. Waits.

“Cas.” Dean’s voice breaks on it. Castiel can’t ask him to do this.

“I trust you,” he repeats.

So Dean shakes out his left hand, wipes the blood from Cas’s jaw, and finishes the job in silence.

 **

Sam is up and walking on his own the following day. Dean watches as he and Cas pore over old books together. Dean crosses his arms, leans against the doorframe. Sam looks tired, dark circles under his eyes – but the light, the vitality in them, still shines through. When he sees Dean watching, he smiles wearily.

Things aren’t perfect between them. They never have been, probably never will be. Dean knows they still have baggage between them. But right now, things are peaceful. There’s no Apocalypse to be stopped, Abbadon and Metatron are minding their own business, and Cas is here. Cas is staying.

Dean watches a bit longer, watches Cas trace a line of text with his finger. Cas looks like he belongs here. God, it’s been a long time since the three of them were working together like this.

Dean clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking,” he says. Both heads at the table lift. “Sam’s still getting back on his feet. Cas, you’re just learning to be human. We’re not really in fighting shape. I think we should stay here for a few more weeks, at least.”

“But Dean, the angels-”

“Can take care of themselves. They have so far. Look, Cas, I know they’re your siblings, I know you think it’s your fault what happened. But we’ve gotten involved in too much shit these past years. First with your douchebag older brothers, then Raphael – _not_ that I approve of the methods there – and then Dick Roman. I think we’ve earned a vacation.”

Dean thinks of all the times he’s asked himself, _Why do I have to save the world?_ The answer’s always the same: _If I don’t, who will?_ So he’s fought and fought and worn himself bone-tired. Maybe it’s time he let the responsibility fall on someone else’s shoulders.

Maybe he’s just getting old. Sure, he’s a hunter. It’s all he’s good for. Dean tried the apple-pie life, and he hated it. But he hates being on the road now too. Maybe it’s having the Bunker now that shows him how wonderful a real home can be. All Dean knows is he doesn’t want to face down any more Apocalypses.

“You’re right,” Sam says. “I mean, I want to go out there and help the angels, stop the fighting, whatever. But I’m tired.”

Dean nods, exchanges a tight smile with his brother. Then he turns to Cas, the real swing vote. “Cas, I get it if- if you wanna skedaddle. I know your family’s important to you.” The words feel like rocks coming out.

“You’re right; it is.” Cas fixes Dean with an even stare. “Which is why I’m not going anywhere. If you want to stay out of this one, I will too. My place is here.”

Something knotted in Dean’s muscles loosens, just a little. He nods, head ducked. “Okay. That’s settled, then.”

He leaves then, because he doesn’t feel at place at the research table. He waits a few hours before returning with a second request, and there they still are, hunched over the same book.

“Hey,” he says. This time, only Sam looks up. “Cas, I… Did you wanna get some new clothes today? I was thinking maybe if you’re up for it.”

Cas nods, but his attention stays on the page under his hands.

“If you’re busy with Sam it’s fine, I’m just getting a little stir crazy here.”

Sam huffs a laugh. “Dean, two hours ago you said you thought we should stay here indefinitely.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean _here_ here, just… I meant we should go domestic, not cave-hermit. I gotta get out, gotta drive. Run some errands. Figured clothes could be one of those?”

“Dean Winchester, volunteering for a shopping trip,” Sam says, grinning like the asshole he is.

“Hey, come on, dude. It’s Cas.”

At that Cas looks up, eyes fixing on Dean’s. Dean tries for a small smile.

“Give me ten minutes,” Cas says, and goes back to his book.

Dean wanders aimlessly, restlessly, for those ten minutes. When the anticipation gets to be too much, he goes to sit in the car. Being here calms him down, the cool leather and the wheel in his hands. He doesn’t know why he’s overthinking this. It’s this _thing_ between him and Cas, whatever’s not working… It’s like they’re a machine with a gear out of place and everything just feels wrong.

Eleven minutes later, the passenger door creaks open and Castiel slides in. He stares straight ahead at the Bunker garage wall. “So. Clothes.”

“Right.” Dean had frozen for a moment, eyes fixed on Cas, but now he fumbles to start the engine. “Right, yeah. We’ll- I don’t know, there’s gotta be something in town. We might have to drive further out to find a good suit place, like Men’s Wearhouse or something.”

“Suits.” Cas’s lips curve upwards. “I thought you’d forgotten.”

“No, man, when we go back to hunting you’ll have to have one.”

“We,” repeats Castiel.

Dean has to focus on driving then, the silence a little too big before he replies. “Yeah, uh, y’know.” He swallows the words _me and you and Sammy._

They settle into silence. It takes Dean fifteen minutes to bolster the nerve for his next words.

“Cas, these last few days, you gotta know-”

“Yeah,” Cas says, “I know.”

Cas looks to the window, and Dean knows what he’s thinking, knows how much easier it is to say something when he’s not meeting someone’s eyes. “You’re not used to having me around all the time. You’re still learning how to deal with me, I understand.”

Dean leans back, surprised by how well that expresses his thoughts. He hadn’t known how to identify it, the problem, but now that Cas has, that feels exactly right. “Yeah, that… yeah.” He wants so badly to be with Cas but doesn’t know how.

Cas sighs a little, Dean thinks, and then they both reach for the radio.

The shopping goes quickly. Cas is surprisingly not picky about his clothes, which does mean Dean has to take out a few horrendously patterned shirts from the mix, but in general the choices are good. He opts for a lot of soft shirts, Henleys and tees and flannel button-ups. And – Dean called it – he even picks out a few sweaters. They’re big, ugly, wool things, the kind made for December hunts, but he lets Cas buy them anyway. And he teaches Cas how to buy shoes, how to feel around the toe to make sure they fit. They buy two pairs of sturdy brown work boots, like Dean and Sam’s, despite the price. The Winchester wallets are fuller than usual these days. Dean never explicitly asked Charlie for the bundle of fake credit cards, but she seemed to understand that the hunting lifestyle didn’t pay very well, and ever since they haven’t been low on cash.

So Dean doesn’t mind buying Cas a nice suit, too. He likes watching Cas try out the options, appearing in various tailored pants and jackets for Dean’s approval. Cas looks as good as Dean imagined he would, the kind of good that turns heads.

“I miss your old tie,” Dean says in explanation as he picks out a blue silk tie to take with them. “But this time, let me show you how to tie it.”

He herds Cas to stand in front of the mirror, hands curled just above Cas’s elbows. Dean’s not very good at tying ties on other people, so he has to loop it around Cas’s neck from behind and pretend it’s his own. He presses right up behind Cas, cheek brushing the shell of his left ear, and wraps arms over shoulders.

“Like this, see? Around, over, around again…” He wrestles with the tie, straightening the knot. Cas leans into him, the press of shoulder blades, for barely half a second. It’s enough to remind Dean where they are, what he’s doing, and he steps abruptly back. “There. You see?” He nods at Cas’s reflection in the mirror. Cas looks confused, eyes locked on Dean’s face. “C’mon, let’s buy your stuff.”

They walk up to the cashier and Dean fumbles with his wallet because he is still watching Cas, the temptation to reach out and smooth down the tie overwhelming. He watches Cas all the way out of the store, down the street, in the car. And then he pretends to watch the road, but he is really watching Cas.

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly. They are on an empty highway, half an hour from the Bunker. Dean lifts his head, because he hears in Cas’s voice that this is serious. He pulls over to the shoulder and turns off the engine. Waits.

“If you want me to leave, please say so.”

Dean chokes on whatever he’d been planning to say. “No, Cas, that’s not- why would you think that?” Except he knows why. Cas thinks Dean doesn’t want him here because he never cooked for him after that first day.

Cas licks his lips. He is very deliberately avoiding Dean’s gaze. “It’s hard for you, that I’m staying.”

Dean swallows, hard. “Yeah, it is. You’re right. It’s new. I’m still figuring my shit out. But don’t think that means – Cas, I _want_ this. I want to make it work. Just give me some time, okay?”

“I’m trying,” Cas says. His voice breaks, just a little, and Dean realizes he’s never seen Castiel cry. But composure settles, Cas wipes a hand over his face, takes a shaky breath. Dean recognizes the motion as one of his own.

All he wanted, _all he wanted_ , for the past five years was for Cas to stay. But now that he is it’s harder than Dean expected. Things aren’t effortless between them like he imagined, like he wanted. He’s miserable, yeah.

Looking over at the passenger seat, Dean realizes Cas is miserable too. It’s there in the set of his jaw, the hollowed look in his eyes. He’s lost weight. And Dean realizes he never asked, they never talked, about how Cas is coping with being human. Not beyond the basic, polite how-are-yous. And Cas always says he’s fine so Dean never worries but _shit_ , if “I’m fine” isn’t the biggest Winchester lie in the book.

Cas is learning to be human from Dean. It only makes sense that he’d learn to hide things too.

Dean searches for words, but they all seem like too little, too late. He settles on, “What do you need?”

Cas goes quiet for a long time. “I need you to drive back to the Bunker.”

“Okay,” Dean says, and he turns over the engine.

 **

Things fade into a sense of normalcy. Dean and Sam talk some, mostly mindless chatter meant to hold in abeyance the important conversations they’ll need to have someday. The empty rooms and hallways echo with a loud silence.

Dean watches TV to pass the time, old seasons of Dr. Sexy and even some Game of Thrones. Sometimes Sam comes and joins him for an episode or two, often with a book in hand. Cas stays far away.

“I’m going to call Amelia,” Sam says one evening, completely out of the blue. Dean turns the TV on mute, shifts his body to face his brother. To let him know he’s listening.

“I don’t know what happened between her and – and Don,” Sam continues, “but if we’re doing this vacation thing indefinitely… I think I’m gonna try.”

Dean expects the swell of panic that rises in him at any mention of Amelia, but it doesn’t come. Somewhere along the way of watching Sam sacrifice himself to save the world _for the second time_ , Dean realized something: there are very few things he wants in the world. One of them is for Sam to be happy.

Dean wonders when his issues regarding Sam got so bad that he made his brother an ultimatum. When he forced Sam back into this life even though he had already had one with Amelia. Dean knows his relationship with Sam isn’t healthy, warped by years of taking care of the kid. But Sam’s definitely not a kid anymore. And Dean’s more of a burden than anything these days, isn’t he? Sam doesn’t need to be taken care of.

“I think that’s a good idea, Sammy,” he says quietly, and turns the TV back on.

Apparently Sam wasn’t expecting the response, because he makes a startled noise, swipes the remote, and mutes the TV again. “What do you mean?”

Dean crosses his arms. “What do _you_ mean, ‘What do you mean’? I said it was a good idea. Now go call your ex-girlfriend or whatever.”

“But you’re- you’re okay with it?”

“Dude, three weeks ago I thought you were gonna die. Anything’s better than that. Besides, I’d kind of like to meet this girl. She must be something to make you quit hunting.”

It’s an old wound, still sore between them, and Dean regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth. But Sam just huffs and shakes his head. Maybe they’ve gotten to the point where they can joke about these things.

“I don’t know if she’d – I mean, I don’t even know _what_ to expect. And I’m not saying I’d leave the Bunker, Dean, I like it here. But if I did, I mean, you’d have Cas. So you’d be okay, right?”

Dean thinks about that for a long, long time. So long that Sam says, “Dean?”

“I’d have Cas,” he repeats. His throat tightens. “You think so?”

Sam looks at him sideways. “Yeah, Dean, I do. Cas isn’t going anywhere.”

Dean huffs. It seems like Sam’s still waiting on a response, so finally he manages, “That… wouldn’t be so bad. I guess.”

Sam steals a look towards the doorway, then leans closer. “Dean, you should talk to him. Really talk to him.”

“Sammy, it’s not- it’s not that easy.”

“But it’s _Cas_.”

And that’s enough, Dean doesn’t like where this conversation is going. “Look, Cas and I – what we have going on – that’s my business. You do your thing with Amelia, and I’ll-”

“So he’s your Amelia?”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean growls, low and threatening, and Sam takes that as his cue.

“All right, fine, I’ll drop it.” He gets to his feet, up and up and up, way too tall for the runt of a kid Dean used to defend from bullies. “Just think about it.”

Dean doesn’t watch him go, turning to the TV instead. Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes pass. Then he hears footsteps behind him.

“So, what’d she say? She gonna take you back?” Dean calls over his shoulder.

“Um,” Cas says.

Dean starts, hands digging into the sofa cushions. “Cas. Hey.”

“You were expecting Sam.”

“Yeah, he…” Dean trails off. Often, he gets distracted mid-sentence by Cas’s face. “You wanna come sit down?”

Castiel says nothing, but sinks onto the opposite side of the couch. There’s a very deliberate, very measured distance between him and Dean, and Dean wants to lean across and drag Cas to his side, wants the bend of Cas’s knee beside his own.

“I need another shave,” Cas says eventually.

“Yeah, later,” Dean says, waving him off not in dismissal but in laziness. Cas seems to detect the difference; they’ve gotten better at understanding the subtleties in one another. They’re getting better about a lot of things. Dean thinks someday, maybe someday soon, they might be able to work through some of the aching silence between them.

Right now, though, Dean lets the buzz of the TV fill the space. He sprawls out, stretching an arm along the back of the couch. A few minutes later Sam returns, stowing his phone.

“So?” Dean asks, looking halfway to his brother.

“She, uh,” Sam says, “she’s not with Don anymore. She wants to see me. She’s living in Louisiana now, but she wants to meet me back in Kermit.”

Cas looks between Dean and Sam, squints, and then gets to his feet. “You two are having a personal conversation. I’ll go.”

“No,” says Dean, a little too quickly. “Stay. I mean- you’re a part of this now too, Cas. If you want to be.”

Cas looks uneasily at Dean, but sits back down. Sam circles around the couch to sit between them.

“She asked me where I was living now,” Sam says quietly, resting his forearms on his knees.

Dean swallows. “Are you gonna tell her?” They’re not just talking about their home anymore.

“I don’t know.”

“’Cause if you want to, that’d be okay.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Dean smiles at his brother, bumps him with a shoulder. “Sammy, if she means that much to you, you gotta tell her eventually. Just don’t scare her off.”

 “I don’t think she scares that easily.”

Dean grunts. “Maybe she’s a keeper, then.”

“So will you go to Kermit?” Cas asks, voice rough and low. Dean had forgotten he was there.

Sam nods, eyebrows knitted together. “I said I would. Just for a couple of days, if that’s all right.”

“You up to it?” Dean looks his brother up and down. Sam’s been getting healthier with every passing day.

“I think so. I feel good, Dean. This feels good.”

Dean meets Cas’s eyes. With Sam gone, they’ll have all these empty rooms to themselves. “Go get her, Sammy.”

Sam really smiles then, the kind of grin that lights up his face. Dean hasn’t seen him smile like that in a long time. Years, maybe.

“I guess I should pack a bag,” he says. “Yeah. Yeah, and- maybe Dad’s journal. To show her, if I want to. If it works out that way.” He gets up, wiping his hands on his thighs.

“Bring her back here, okay?” Dean says. “I wanna meet her. If- if it works out that way, I mean.”

Sam nods, smiles at Cas, and steals out of the room. Out of the Bunker, to Kermit, to Amelia.

If things seemed quiet with Sam in the Bunker, they’re far worse once he’s gone. Dean buries himself in research, keeping tabs through the hunter network on the angel situation. It seems like they’ve divided into two loose factions, with one taking the West Coast and the other New England. Border skirmishes have been flattening towns in the Midwest.

This stuff isn’t just happening in the United States, though. Dean doesn’t like to think too hard about international monsters, though he knows they’re out there. One country is enough for him. Besides, hunting internationally would mean planes. Dean’s not sure he’s prepared for that. But he and Cas have talked a little, in the aftermath of the Fall, about what angels are doing in other countries.

“What if I had landed in, say, eastern Asia?” Cas asks one afternoon. It’s a good day, when they’re sitting together in the library, in their own worlds but still in each other’s company. “I was able to make it to Linwood Memorial on buses, but I landed with nothing. Plane fare would have been out of the question. Would you have come and found me?” He frowns. “Oh, but you and planes…”

 _I’d get on any plane for you,_ Dean thinks but doesn’t say. Instead, he shrugs. “I always find you eventually, Cas.”

But maybe that’s just as sappy, because Cas gets this little flattered smile on his face, and doesn’t say anything for a long time after that.

 **

Dean calls Sam later that afternoon, just to check in. It seems like he and Amelia have picked things back up where they left off.

“We’ve been doing a lot of talking, Dean. About whether this is going to work. And I haven’t told her about, y’know, us. The life. She still thinks you’re dead, and the fact that you aren’t is gonna be pretty tough to explain. but I think… I think I might want to.”

Dean thinks about all that he and Sam and Cas have been through together. All that Sam has sacrificed for the happiness of others. And this girl, Amelia, is someone that Sam really wants to be with. Someone that will really make Sam happy.

So he says, “Okay, dude, if you want to, then I trust your judgment.”

“Thanks, Dean.” It’s genuine, not a throwaway reply. He hears it in Sam’s voice. That kind of sincerity forces him to lean back on old, crude humor.

“But it’s working out okay so far? You guys, uh, rekindling the old flame? Getting back into marathon shape?”

“Gross, Dean.” Dean can almost hear the face Sam’s making. “But, um, I guess. It’s a little weird. We’re still figuring out how to be around each other.”

Sounds like him and Cas, actually. Still learning how to exist in the same space.

Sam’s mind must have gone the same way, because he says, “How are things with you and Cas? Bunker still standing?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, still standing. It’s like what you said just now; things are a little weird. I want to punch him in the face a lot of the time, but that’s Cas for you.” He shrugs.

“Dean…” And oh, Dean knows that tone of voice, knows where this is going, so he scrambles to divert it.

“Dude, can we not? Right now? Or ever?” He wipes a hand down his face. “I called to ask about Amelia, let’s talk about Amelia.”

Sam pauses for a beat. “You know, you always talked about how it’s dangerous to hunt halfway. One foot in the door. But maybe I could give it a shot? I mean, neither of us has been very successful at getting out of the life completely. And I think you’re right that we’re meant to be hunters. We belong in this world.”

“It’s in our blood,” Dean reminds him.

“Yeah. But at the rate we’re going-”

“We’re gonna get ourselves killed. Permanently.” Dean thinks of sitting in that hospital, thinking he was gonna lose Sammy. It’s happened before, but this time feels like the final straw. Dean’s tired of retreading the same story again and again. It’s a perpetual cycle and they’re always miserable and fighting. Fighting something, or fighting each other. Just for once, he wants to be at peace. Sam’s right; it’s time they tried something new.

 “So you and Amelia,” he says. “You gonna try a one-foot-in-the-door thing?”

“Yeah,” says Sam. Another pause. “What about you and Cas, Dean? Are you gonna- I mean, do you think it’ll ever-”

“I don’t know, Sammy.” He looks towards the main room. “I just don’t know.”

A beat. The silence sounds something like acceptance. “Okay,” Sam says. “I just- you know I want you to be happy, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. He knows Sam wants to say more. “Good luck with Amelia, buddy.”

“Yeah. And same for- I mean. That’s. I’ll see you in a couple of days, Dean.”

The line clicks, and Dean sets the phone gently on the nightstand. Pads back out to the main room, where Cas waits.

(He wonders when Sam figured it out, that there was something going on there. Dean doesn’t even know when he himself figured it out. It’s not like he and Cas talk about these things. It just presses at the back of his mind when he sits in empty hotel rooms, when he uncaps a fourth beer, when he sees couples kissing in the street.)

He settles back into his chair and watches Cas uneasily for a couple of minutes.

Cas looks up, squints at Dean, and closes his book. “What, Dean.”

“What?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“Sorry. I’m just.” He blinks, licks his lips, and flicks his eyes over to the wall. “Thinking, you know.”

“Would you like to share?” Cas’s tone is flat, words clipped, like he’s getting impatient with Dean’s ineptitude. Probably is.

“No, it’s just…” Is he gonna say it? Nah, he’s not- yeah, he’s gonna say it. “Cas, are you eating? And sleeping?”

Cas frowns, a wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. “Yeah. Why?”

Dean shakes his head, lets his eyes flit back to Cas’s face for a beat. “Nothing, sorry. I just noticed- you’ve been losing weight, buddy, and you look tired.”

“I’m fine, Dean. Thank you for asking.” Cas sighs and pushes away from the table.

But Dean recognizes that tone of voice, and he scrambles to follow Cas to his feet. “Yeah, well, I hear that a lot, I _say_ that a lot, and it’s almost never true. So-”

“ _Dean_.” The word bites. “I can take care of myself.”

Dean feels something push on his chest, a crushing weight. “I know, but that doesn’t mean-” He cuts himself off because he knows where that sentence was going _._ He shakes his head, laughs humorlessly. “Okay, fine. Have it your way.”

He doesn’t intend it with hostility, but somehow it rolls off his tongue that way. Cas gives him a look, shakes his head, and stalks off towards the library.

Yeah, that’s what he gets for trying. And it had been a good day, too. Dean groans, rubs his forehead with the heel of one hand, and goes off in the opposite direction.

The day drags. He watches TV to distract, watches through dinner, then through three drinks. Dean sits for a long time, tipping a beer bottle back and forth in his hands, debating checking on Cas.

He should do it. Sam would want him to. Sam wants him to mend bridges.

(They don’t just have “broken bridges” to mend. They have fucking chasms. They have to build their bridges from scratch.)

No, Cas made his position clear earlier. He doesn’t want Dean around. Or maybe he does, but he’s too proud to say so. Either way, Dean’s not gonna make the first move this time around.

He walks back to his room at a slow, plodding pace, bottle swinging in hand. He pauses for barely a moment outside of Cas’s door. The floorboards creak under his feet. He looks at the peeling green paint around the doorknob. The beer bottle feels too light in his hands, too empty.

He turns into his own room. He sleeps fully-dressed.

 **

Dean is in the war room the next morning when he hears the Bunker door slam open. He closes his laptop and jogs out to the main room, socks slipping on the polished wood steps. “Sammy? That you?”

Instead, he gets a young woman with a head of wild dark curls storming down the front stairs. Sam follows at her heels, stumbling over himself like a gangly teenager. She comes to a stop five feet from Dean.

“You’re him,” she says. “You’re the dead brother, Dean.”

Ah. So Sam told her. Dean puts on his most charming smile and says, “Yep, that’s me. Dean-the-dead-brother. Well, not dead right now. Sometimes dead. Usually alive. Actually-”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam says, making that one face.

“Right. Sorry.” He switches to his I’m-actually-not-sorry-at-all smile. “I’m supposed to be making a good first impression. I take it you’re Amelia?”

“He told you about me,” she says.

“A little.” _Wouldn’t shut up about you_ , he considers saying. But this is important to Sammy; it’s time to be serious.

“Funny, because he told me about you too. Except he left out the part where you _came back from the dead_.”

Dean decides, in that moment, that he likes this girl. He meets Sam’s eyes over her shoulder. God, Sam looks absolutely terrified. Panicky-thirteen-year-old-on-his-first-date terrified.

“Welcome home, Sammy,” he says. “Thanks for calling ahead.”

Sam blinks twice, before suddenly stumbling into motion. “Sorry, yeah. I should have- it happened really fast.”

“So you told her,” Dean says, staring at Amelia as he says it. She stares right back. Sam was right; this girl has guts.

“He told me,” she says. “And then I made him drive me here.”

“She wanted proof,” Sam explains.

“Proof. Well, you got it.” Dean turns in a slow circle, stupid grin slipping back on.

She nods, follows his gaze. “So this is the- what did you call it?”

“The Bunker,” Dean and his brother say in unison.

Amelia steps by Dean to look at one of the bookshelves. Sam takes the opportunity to pull Dean aside.

 “She’s taking it okay?” Dean asks, lowering his voice so Amelia can’t hear.

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t know. She’s being very shuttered about it. Listening and asking questions and stuff without giving me any idea of her reaction.”

“Bet she thinks you’re a nutcase.”

Sam looks at Amelia, behind Dean. His eyes get all soft when he looks at her. “I don’t know. If she did, do you really think she’d be here right now?” Then, after half a beat, his gaze comes back to Dean. “Where’s Cas?”

That puts a frown on Dean’s face. “Dunno, probably still sleeping. He’s not really a morning person, remember?”

Sam’s face gets all serious all of a sudden. It’s the face he puts on while they’re interviewing a victim’s family. “Are you and Cas fighting again?”

Before Dean can respond, Amelia turns around. “Who’s Cas?”

Dean, grateful for the diversion, jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Castiel. He’s our resident grumpy fallen angel. He likes burgers and trenchcoats and warm showers. Not so big on mornings.”

“Angel.” Amelia looks from Dean, to Sam. “You’re kidding me, right?”

Dean groans and turns to his brother. “Dude, you didn’t even mention the angels thing? How far did you get with the explanation?”

Sam puts up two hands in defense. “It was mostly backstory. Demons, ghosts, yada yada yada. Didn’t really get past Yellow Eyes.”

“ _Yellow Eyes?_ Come on, Sammy.” Dean wipes a hand down his face. “Man, do you have some catching up to do.”

“Look, I was taking it slow! And then she interrupted me and dragged me back here.”

Amelia clears her throat, and they pause their bickering to look back to her. She has her arms crossed, but she looks amused. “You two really are brothers, huh?” She licks her lips, glances at Dean. “I didn’t think it’d be like this.”

Dean holds his arms wide. “Well, this is what it is. Yeah, I know it sounds crazy. All of it. But it’s real, it’s our life, and if you wanna be with Sammy you gotta get used to it.”

He lets that echo around the room for a bit. Amelia stares at Sam for a while, and he keeps his eyes on his feet. Eventually, slowly, she says, “Tell me about angels.”

Like Sam said, it’s not acceptance, but at least she’s listening. He takes her by the elbow, guides her into the war room.

“I’ll make breakfast,” Dean murmurs, more to himself than to them. He gives them their space.

Cas appears while Dean’s frying up the bacon, shuffling into the kitchen on bare feet.

“Amelia’s here,” Dean says, carefully not looking up from the pan.

“Amelia. Right. Sam’s…” Cas rubs his eyes. “I should look presentable, right?”

“Probably. Sleep well?”

“No,” Cas says, and he walks back out.

Dean laughs to himself, because when was the last time _any_ of them got a good night’s sleep?

He didn’t offer Cas breakfast. He could feel the question rumbling under his skin but he couldn’t quite draw it out. He doesn’t want Cas to say no again. He doesn’t want Cas to say no to him.

But he brings three heaping plates to Sam and Amelia, and sits down at Sam’s right shoulder. “So,” he says, shoveling eggs into his mouth, “what’s going on?”

Amelia looks down at her plate, then back to Dean. “You made this?”

The fork pauses halfway back to the plate. “Yeah. So? You got something against guys cooking?”

She shakes her head, a smile curling her lips. “No, no, that’s not- it’s just. You hunt monsters, and then in your free time you make breakfast scrambles?”

“Yeah. I mean. A man’s gotta eat, you know?”

“I know,” she says, “but it doesn’t fit my image of you.”

“Better adjust that image, then.” He picks up a strip of nicely-fried bacon and tears off the corner.

“Maybe so.” Amelia takes a bite, nods, and takes another. “So what else do you guys do, besides hunt? I know Sam fixes air conditioners and plumbing.”

Sam laughs, shakes his head. “Nah, I learned that all from Dean. He’s the engineer in the family.”

“Am not,” Dean grumbles. He pushes the eggs around his plate.

“And he fixes up cars. Damn good at it too.”

“Sam’s more of the research guy,” Dean says. “He’s better at the Latin stuff than me, definitely.”

“Dean takes care of our car.”

“Damn right I do,” says Dean.

“And what about Castiel?” Amelia asks.

“What?” Dean drops the banter to stare at Amelia.

“What does he do around here?”

“He-” Dean stops. Tries to think of something. Cas used to serve as backup on hunts. Nowadays he just wanders the Bunker with a morose expression and an old book.

“He’s our friend,” Sam says.

Yet that doesn’t really fit. Cas doesn’t really _support_ them, not the way a friend should. He gets in the way. He lies to them. He leaves. And when he leaves, Dean becomes an island. He buries himself in drinking and fighting and fucking and he tries to pretend he doesn’t miss Cas.

But maybe that’s just it: Dean needs Cas to be at his side to be happy. He needs to know he’s safe at the end of the day. As long as Cas is there, things are okay. Or, at least, they will be.

Cas is a sailboat. And when Dean becomes an island, he sails out to Dean’s shores and builds a house there.

Amelia is watching Dean carefully, eyes guarded. Finally, he says, “We need him. He doesn’t need to be fixing air conditioners for us to need him.”

“Okay,” she says. “I believe you.”

“Which part?” Sam asks.

“All of it.”

“Oh,” Sam says. He reaches across the table for Amelia’s hand, but she tugs hers away. So maybe they’re not there just yet.

Cas pads in once the dishes are cleared – Dean wonders briefly if that’s deliberate – and sits down at Dean’s side. He introduces himself to Amelia quietly, and she asks him a few questions about Heaven and angels. Dean watches guardedly for any sort of negative reaction. They still haven’t talked about how Cas feels about falling. But Cas makes steady eye contact with Amelia, gives her thorough and honest answers.

Amelia stands up. “I’m going to go for a walk,” she announces.

Sam shoves to his feet, chair shrieking against the floor. “I’ll come with you,” he says.

“No.” She shakes her head. “I love you, Sam, but I don’t want to be with you right now.”

Dean looks from Sam to Amelia. He sits up straighter. “Can I come?”

Amelia looks at him, purses her lips. “Fine. If you’re quiet.”

Cas snorts softly, and Dean shoots him a glare. But it’s a playful glare, because maybe they can afford to be playful every once in a while.

So he follows her out of the Bunker. She’s a whirlwind, this Amelia, never slows down to let someone else catch up.

They go into the woods. Dean silently guides her through the paths he knows; he runs here in the mornings. Though Sam’s more of the jogger of the family, all this sitting around has left Dean’s body in need of exercise. He doesn’t mind running, used to do it a lot as a kid. These woods are quiet and cool in the mornings.

Amelia slows her pace, folding her arms across her chest. She simmers in silence for some time. Then, as Dean expected, she cracks. “Have you ever told someone?” she asks. She doesn’t need to say more; Dean knows exactly what she’s talking about.

“Once, yeah.”

“And what happened?”

“She broke my fucking heart,” he says.

Amelia thinks about that for a bit. So does Dean.

“Sam,” Amelia says, “he knew he would sound crazy. He knew I’d be angry. But he told me anyway.”

He licks his lips, considers his next words carefully. “Hunters- we don’t get happy endings. But when I see the way Sam looks at you, I think he might.” He shakes his head, because that came out _way_ sappier than intended. “Look, all I’m saying is… He’s my brother. He’s the best guy out there. Sure, he’s made some mistakes. The life we lead, sometimes our mistakes mean a lot more than the average Joe’s. Try not to judge him by the mistakes he made but by the steps he took to remedy them.”

They fall into silence once more. Dean wonders what is going through Amelia’s head. He tries to remember a time before he knew about the things in the dark.

“You were dead,” she says after a while. “That’s what Sam said. He was really – really upset over it.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I was. Sort of. It’s kind of a long story.”

“Start talking.”

Somehow he knew she’d say that. “Cas and I,” he says, “we kind of got sent to Purgatory. You know, Biblical Purgatory? Well, in the real world, it’s the place monsters go when they die. And we killed this, um, this really big monster, and we got dragged down with him.”

“But Sam thought you had died.”

“So did I, at first. Purgatory’s not as bad as Hell, but it comes close some days.”

“As bad as-” She opens her mouth to question, pauses, and closes it again. “Never mind, I’ll ask later.”

Dean laughs, because laughter is the only manageable response to a passing mention of Hell. “Right. So, Purgatory. Anyway, Cas and I run around kicking monster ass for a year, Sam goes off and finds himself a girlfriend, assuming I’m dead… I figure out a way back on my own, yada yada yada.”

“And Sam drops everything and runs to you.”

“Pretty much.”

Amelia purses her lips. “I guess, given the stuff with Don, that makes… some sense. And you knew about me?”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and scans the empty woods. “Yeah, Sammy told me about you.”

“But you didn’t want him coming back to me.”

He stops walking. “Look, Amelia… Things have changed, okay? In the past few weeks. You seem cool, and I… I guess, if you make Sam happy, then I’m fine with whatever you two are up to. But don’t think I’m gonna let him go gallivanting off with you, okay? This is his home.”

Amelia faces him head on. “ _Let_ him? He’s thirty years old, Dean. He makes his own choices.”

Dean rubs a hand over his face. “That came out wrong. It’s just-”

“Just what?”

“I _need_ him, okay?” he snaps. Then, gentler, “I need him around. He’s my little brother, okay? We’re miserable when we’re apart; you saw that for yourself. I need him here.”

“Like Cas.”

“Yeah. Like Cas.” He starts walking again, a grouchy set to his stride, and this time it’s Amelia who has to catch up.

“Dean, are you happy?” she asks.

“The fuck kind of question is that?” he grunts. “Lady, I just _met_ you. If you think I’m about to go spilling my chick-flick guts-”

“You kind of just did,” she says.

“-then you’ve got another thing coming. I came out here because you wouldn’t let Sam, all right? That’s it.”

“You thought I couldn’t take care of myself?’

He shakes his head. “Nah, not against the stuff we face. You’re a friend of the Winchesters, you gotta start taking measures to protect yourself. Have _you_ got five weapons on you? No. I do. Makes sense, don’t it?”

She frowns. “You’re angry now. You’re not happy at _all_ , are you?”

He throws his hands in the air. “No, I’m not _happy_. Of course I’m not. That enough for you?”

She backs down quickly. They walk in grumpy silence all the way back to the Bunker.

Dean goes to his room like a sulking child, locking himself up in loud music and tempered frustration. He’s not really angry at Amelia, but at something bigger. He’s living in this good place and he’s making scrambled eggs and meeting his brother’s girlfriend but he’s not happy. Cas isn’t talking to him, and that’s not really why he’s not happy, but Dean thinks it might be a part of it.

Which makes the knock on his door all the better timed. Cas comes in and hovers at the foot of his bed. Dean leaves his music on, and they stare at each other for a long moment.

“That’s loud,” Cas finally says, and turns off the stereo.

Dean considers protesting, but can’t find the energy. The space beside him is empty, but he doesn’t invite Cas to sit down.

“You don’t want to talk about it,” he says from the empty space in front of Dean’s bed. He puts his hands in his jean pockets, sweater bunching up around his wrists.

“No,” Dean says, even though he’s unsure of what “it” is.

Castiel stands there for a while longer. He stares at Dean until Dean grows uncomfortable. Once, when Cas was an angel, they used to do this staring thing a lot. These days, Dean grows restless under Castiel’s eyes.

“Let’s go hunt something,” he says finally. When Dean responds with only a surprised look, he continues, “I found a hunt. A few hours from here. Vampires, I think.”

Dean said they were retiring. But this is small fry. So he follows Cas out to the computer, even though he’s still angry, agitated. He looks over Cas’s shoulder at the computer screen and tries not to notice their proximity. There’s a moment when Cas turns his head to look at Dean and their heads almost bump, but Dean pulls back just in time.

Vampires, yeah.

“You need to blow off steam,” Cas says. “And we should give Sam his space, don’t you think?”

Dean tries to imagine being alone in a car with Cas for three hours. They’ve given Sam too much space in the past few days; it’s suffocating for him and Cas. But even so, he imagines the weight of a blade in his hand, the satisfaction of killing something evil, so he goes to pack a duffel.

Cas tells Sam, and then they leave together. Cas walks stiffly, putting space between himself and Dean. He is wearing a sweater, but Dean sees the collar of one of his own t-shirts peeking out from underneath.

Halfway to Oklahoma, Cas says, “I’ve been doing some research, Dean.”

“On?”

“Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” he says.

In hindsight, Dean knows he reacts badly. He snaps, “What’re you insinuating, Cas?”

“I-”

“You think I’m that fucked up? You think I need help? Maybe a therapist?”

“Dean, you don’t-”

“What are you trying to do, diagnose me? That’s not your job, Cas.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says, “I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about myself.”

“Oh,” Dean says. He wants to take his words out of the air and swallow them back, but it’s too late.

“You never asked me how I lost my grace,” Cas says.

Dean wonders why Cas is trying to talk about it now. They’ve never talked about it before; he assumed there was no need to. Dean knows talking about shit usually makes it worse, makes it weigh heavier.

Unsolicited, Cas continues. “Metatron pinned me to a table and slit my throat, Dean.”

This is why Dean never asked. Because when Cas says that, he feels a black hole open up in the pit of his stomach.

“I’ve been having nightmares,” Cas says. “I’m not sleeping much anymore because of them. I know you and Sam have similar problems, so I didn’t think they were worth mentioning.”

“Cas,” Dean says, all strangled-like.

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t want to have this conversation, and I know you don’t either. Don’t try. But you never asked me and I thought it was time I said something.”

Cas is right. Dean never asked, because he’s stubborn, because he’s embarrassed. Sam told him to ask and he probably should have listened but he didn’t.

And Dean knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he’s got all the symptoms of PTSD too. The shit he’s seen, it happens. It’s not even Hell, which sort of went fuzzy after the first few years topside. But Dean has faced too much violence, and it leaves him just that- violent.

He wonders if his anger today was a sign of that. If his shitty communication skills are a sign of that. Sometimes the nightmares get so bad he wakes up screaming.

So he knows, he _knows_ Cas is right, about all of this. He just doesn’t know how to say so out loud.

Instead, he says, “We’ll get you sleeping pills,” which is possibly the worst response imaginable. It shuts Cas down immediately, closes off whatever vulnerability he was extending to Dean. The car ride is painful, physically painful, for both of them after that.

It takes a day to find the vampire nest. They sleep in a shitty motel room, backs to each other on separate beds. In the morning Cas brings Dean coffee from the Gas-n-Sip down the street.

They kill the vamps quickly, methodically. It’s exactly what Dean needed, a familiar way to blow off steam. Sometimes, he thinks Cas knows him better than anyone else.

(Other times, he thinks Cas doesn’t know him at all.)

When they get home, Amelia is gone. Sam says she went back to Louisiana, but she promised to call. She said she’d come back next week. It seems like things are working out, like they’re on good terms. It seems like she believes Sam. And she’s not running.

“The commute isn’t that long, right?” he says. “She doesn’t really settle down, I don’t think her home in Louisiana is important. But I think it’ll be a little while longer before we consider- you know, relocation. Or something. How was the hunt?”

“Fine,” Dean says. He watches Cas walk away. “Sam, Cas told me- he said he’s not sleeping. Says he’s struggling with nightmares.”

Sam doesn’t react. “Yeah. I know.”

“You know? Cas told you?”

Sam looks at Dean weirdly. “He didn’t need to, Dean. It’s obvious. Have you seen how tired he’s been lately? He’s not exactly doing well.”

No, Dean didn’t see it. Or maybe he did, but he chose to ignore it, chose not to push further. But the idea of Sam knowing when he didn’t is upsetting. Cas is supposed to be his responsibility.

“Dean,” Sam says, “did you guys finally talk?”

“No,” he says. “No, not really. That’s not really in the cards for us.”

Sam sighs and combs back his floppy hair. “Dean, c’mon. That’s not it. This is a choice you’re making, a deliberate choice not to broach the subject with him.”

“What subject?”

Sam gives him a look.

But Dean really doesn’t know to what Sam’s referring. There’s a lot of stuff going on: Cas has his issues, Dean has his issues. They could talk about their shitty communication skills, but the idea of that is a paradox in itself.

And then there’s the thing between them. The thing that knocks against Dean’s old, worn heart. The thing that says, _Cas is it for me._

 “Dean,” Sam says quietly, “I talked to Amelia. Now it’s your turn.”

Dean grumbles and goes off on his own and ignores Sam’s words. As per usual.

 **

Two days later, Dean tries – tries the only way he knows how. Not with words, but with weapons. He takes Cas out to the field behind the Bunker with an array of guns and knives, lines up the empty bottles like his father once did for him.

“Now that you’re human, you have to learn to fight the human way,” he says. He presses the gun carefully into Cas’s hand, feeling the roughness of his healing knuckles. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Maybe a rom-com-worthy opportunity to press himself up against Cas’s body and show him how to shoot properly. Something slow and gentle and teasing.

What he doesn’t expect is for Cas to hit every bullseye, unflinchingly, one-handedly.

“I was a soldier in Heaven’s army for thousands of years, Dean,” he says. “I learn quickly. I’ve been learning from you and Sam for years.”

“Right,” Dean says, because he’s not sure what to make of that. He stares at the shattered bottles. He swallows the lump in his throat and reaches back into the weapons duffel. “Hand-to-hand combat, then. You were always good at that – before – but your reflexes are slower now. And no smiting, so…” Dean hands Cas an angel blade, hilt first. Opens his arms in a display of vulnerability.

It hits him painfully, the familiarity of the situation, and Dean knows no other way to placate the memory but through humor. “Hey, remember the last time we stood like this?”

And then Cas is dropping the blade, dropping to his knees, vomiting all over the grass. All in a matter of seconds. Dean’s smile, which had just been starting out, falters. He falls to his knees besides Cas.

“Whoa, dude, slow down there. You okay?”

Cas leans back on his heels, wipes his mouth, shrugs off Dean’s hand on his shoulder.

“I was just kidding,” Dean says, as if that means anything.

“I’m not doing this,” Cas pants. His eyes fix on the silver blade, glinting in the sunlight. “You can’t make me do this.”

“Cas, no one’s making you do anything,” Dean says softly. He tries again to reach out, and this time Cas doesn’t push him away. Touch is less frequent between them now than it used to be, but somehow that makes it more valuable.

He thought he was the only one affected by what happened in the crypt. Cas never mentioned it again, and he thought that meant it was forgotten. Maybe he jumped to conclusions too quickly.

“Let’s, um, let’s take a break,” he says. Cas makes no effort to move. So they stay like that, kneeling in the swaying grass. Stuck, as usual, by their inability to communicate.

Cas needs right now. He just needs. He needs to talk, needs to be heard.

Dean has to put aside his own bullshit and do like Sam said. He has to say something.

“Do you want to talk?”

Five words he’s _never_ said. And here he is, saying them to Cas.

“Yeah,” Cas says. “Yeah, I do.”

He can feel the panic rising in his chest, the tensing of his muscles and the constricting of his lungs. It threatens to consume him. But he focuses on his hand on Cas’s shoulder, on the warmth of Cas, on the softness of his flannel shirt. He pushes away the panic and takes in the clear summer air.

“The crypt,” Dean says. “You- you have nightmares about _that_?”

“Yes,” Cas says. “Do you?”

“Every night.”

Cas tenses under his hand.

“I didn’t think you cared,” says Dean. “Cas, I said-”

“I remember,” Cas cuts in. “I remember what you said.”

“It hasn’t changed,” he blurts out, before he can stop himself. “I’m still- I mean. I’m still the same.”

“I’m not,” says Cas. He laughs once, bitterly, and it sends chills down Dean’s spine.

“Let’s go inside,” he says. He forces Cas to his feet and walks him back to the Bunker.

“Naomi,” Cas says, “in Heaven. She knew you were my weakness.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Cas?” Dean asks, though he has an idea.

Cas walks two steps ahead, winds his way through Bunker hallways to the bedrooms. Dean expects him to open his own, but instead he hesitates outside Dean’s door.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “you can go in.”

Cas sits on the bed. Dean sits on the floor. He stays by the door, to keep a measurable distance between them. He can’t do this when they’re breathing the same air.

“The first year,” Castiel says, “with Uriel. Do you remember? I was called back to Heaven, rewired to their standards. My… fondness for you was purged.”

Yeah, Dean remembers that. The same day Cas returned, he shoved Dean in a room to torture Alistair. Dean won’t forget that.

“Naomi had the same idea,” Cas says. “She knew that you were the only thing that stood in my way.”

“Stood in your way for what?”

“For everything,” Cas says.

Dean doesn’t know what that means, doesn’t know if he likes it or not.

“She trained me. To kill you.”

“Naomi?”

“Yes. She knew I would have to go through you, and she knew I would not do it. So she locked me in Heaven and tortured me until I would.”

“Cas.” Dean doesn’t know what Heaven’s torture is like, but he knows the other side, and he would never wish that on anyone. He would never wish that on Cas.

“It felt so real,” Cas whispers. “Like you were really there. Like you were really dying under my hands.”

And Dean gets it, then, gets what Naomi made him do. He feels the panic pressing at his mind’s walls. “How many?” He swallows. “How many times did you have to do it, before…” _Before she made you do it with the real Dean._

Cas’s eyes slip shut. “Hundreds. Thousands. Too many, I don’t know. I stopped counting after, well, after the fifty-ninth.”

Dean doesn’t want to ask, he _doesn’t want to_ , but he does anyway. He knows he has to. “What happened with the fifty-ninth?”

Cas opens his eyes and looks at Dean. The first time he’s done that all day. “You kissed me,” he says.

Dean feels the walls he’s built crash down. He looks at Cas, and Cas looks at him, and his heart starts beating again.

“I killed you,” Cas says, “and you kissed me for it.”

The silence feels endless. The space between them feels endless.

Dean puts a hand over his eyes. He can’t keep looking at Cas, not right now. “That wasn’t you, Cas. I know what torture is like, I know what it does to a person. You know I know. You know I don’t believe you would do that. You _didn’t_ do that.”

“I did.”

“But not to _me_. When it mattered, you fought back.”

“You told me you loved me,” Cas says, “and I slid a knife between your ribs.”

“That wasn’t me, Cas. That wasn’t me any more than it was you in the crypt. That was some twisted, warped, _Naomi-bot_ version of me.”

“I know,” Cas says. “And I knew then, because I knew the real you would never say that.” It sounds so matter-of-fact, unquestionable.

What about what Dean _did_ say, then? Doesn’t Cas get that it _was_ his way of saying it? “Cas. Cas, look at me.”

He gets up, crosses the space between them to kneel at Cas’s feet. “You have to listen to me. I don’t blame you – whether it was Naomi or… or not. I don’t blame you.”

Cas looks somewhere just above Dean’s eyes. “Maybe not, but you’re still having nightmares because of me.”

Dean laughs softly. He considers putting a hand on Cas’s knee. He doesn’t. “Cas, I’d be having nightmares whether or not that happened. So would you. It’s not that simple.”

And then, because he’s on a roll today, he says, “Speaking of nightmares. Yours, are they- well. Look, the other day, in the car, I didn’t… Do you want to – uh – talk about them?”

Cas’s eyes soften, the beginnings of a smile. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

He’s teasing, Dean knows. But Dean’s already feeling kind of vulnerable here, kind of scraped raw, and the comment stings. He gets to his feet.

“Dean,” Castiel says, reaching to catch his wrist and missing, “thank you. I know what you mean here, and thank you. But I don’t think I want to talk about my nightmares in vivid detail. I don’t think you do either.”

Dean shifts his weight. “I can, um, try another time. If that’s what you want.”

“I’d like that.”

“You know that’s what I’m doing, right? Trying. You know I’m shit at this. But Cas, you also know- I mean, you have to know- I want to try. With you. To make this-” he gestures between them, “to make _us_ work.”

Cas looks like he has a crater in his chest. “Dean,” he says softly.

He thinks maybe there’s something else he should say, something Sam would want him to say, but he looks at Cas looking at him and he loses his breath.

He lingers there for half a beat longer before walking away. This is supposed to feel better now, right? He’s supposed to feel like a weight was taken off his shoulders. But it doesn’t feel better. If anything, it’s the opposite – like everything Cas said is now on his shoulders. And that doesn’t make sense, because he shouldn’t feel responsible for what happened.

But Dean can take some of the burden. He can take the whole fucking world on his back, if Cas needs him to. Or something like that. He thinks he remembers something from Greek mythology about that. Sam would know.

Sam, who is conveniently out grocery shopping at the moment. Dean loves his brother, he really does, but this thing with Cas is a separate entity. It needs space.

He thinks about taking some space for himself. Getting out of the Bunker. Away from Cas. He could just pack a bag, just walk out. Except Cas is still in his bedroom, and he doesn’t want to go back there.

So Dean just gets in the Impala and drives. No destination in mind, with nothing but the clothes he wears. It feels a little like the good old days, before everything went to hell.

(Literally.)

He drives out of Kansas, drives into Missouri. Keeps driving through the night. The hum of the engine lines up with the hum of his thoughts.

Cas said- and Dean said- well. They didn’t really _say_ it, did they? But Dean knows now, knows with a quiet certainty, that Cas feels it too. The thing between them. Dean thinks he’s known for a long time.

He has to get his shit together. He has to push against the current, against whatever it is that’s separated them. Dean is distancing himself, and he can’t figure out why. He wants to be with Cas, he does. But after all this time, does he really know how? Cas feels familiar and unfamiliar all at once. He is a song Dean can’t quite remember the words to.

He keeps driving, until he can’t anymore, and then he holes up in a ratty motel on the roadside. It feels like an echo of the years when Sam was at Stanford, when Dean hunted alone. Sometimes the silence of motel rooms became overwhelming. On nights like these, when his hand kept drifting to his phone, the temptation to call Sam too strong, he’d go out. Get drunk, let the rest of his thoughts dissolve away.

He should go home. He should go home and find Cas and talk to him again, talk to him about this. About them.

But he’s tired, and he wants a drink, and he wants some time away. He never thought retirement would be this stifling. He understands now Sam’s need for Amelia, for someone new and separate from their world. He tries to remember what it was like with Lisa, or even with Cassie.

Cassie. Jesus, it’s been a long time since he’s seen her. With all the things going on lately, with Amelia, she’s been on Dean’s mind pretty frequently. He always said he’d go back, after that incident with the racist truck, but life got in the way. Sam’s psychic powers got in the way. Dad, and then the accident, and then things with Yellow Eyes were getting too big to put aside.

He could go back now. Not to- not to start anything, because they are a thing of the past and he knows that, but just to see her. He’d like that. To see her. And he’s in Missouri, barely thirty miles away from Cape Girardeau. He could… If she were still living there, maybe… He’ll sleep on it, and decide in the morning. And then he’ll go home. He _will_.

In the morning, there are three new texts from Sam: _dude, where r u?_ and _seriously dean call me_ and _dean cas is worried._ Dean considers replying, he knows he should, but he stows his phone. Yesterday’s conversation was good, he thinks, but it was taxing. He needs some time in his own head now. He needs to sort things out. He thinks Cassie could help with that.

He still remembers the address. He still remembers the way through Cape Girardeau. At one point, he swears he can feel the ghost of that old truck following him. But then again, Dean has a lot of ghosts following him these days.

Three knocks on the door. The same door, older now, the paint peeling in places. Enough time passes that Dean begins to think no one’s home. Maybe she moved. Maybe this was dumb.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocks back on his heels. Tries to get up the nerve to leave the porch behind. It’s then that the door finally wrenches open, and Cassie’s familiar face appears in the doorway.

“Heya, Cassie,” he says, and plasters on one of his old smiles.

“Dean?” The widening of her eyes is almost comical.

“Guess you remember me.”

“Hard to forget you.”

There’s an awkward beat. He says, “Well, I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d just- can I come in?”

She blinks, looks him up and down, and says, “Y- yeah. Of course, come on in. Um, tea, coffee? Beer?”

“Beer’s fine, thanks.” Five o’clock somewhere. He lingers in the doorway for a moment before following her into the kitchen. She hands him a beer, and he’s careful not to brush her fingers. He’s had enough touch for today.

She looks different. Dean doesn’t know what he expected – for time to stand still, maybe. Her hair is cropped close to her head, and she has a wrinkle between her eyebrows now, and she’s wearing earrings that reach her shoulders. She looks older, and- and happier.

They spend a long moment just looking at each other, drinking in the years.

“You look good,” he says.

“You look tired,” she says. He forgot how much he liked her honesty. “Dean, what’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He licks his lips. “Like I said, I was in the neighborhood. Can’t I drop in on an old friend?”

“If you were in the neighborhood, so’s a monster. Right? Or another ghost truck, or a vampire, or- I don’t even _know_ what you fight, Dean! So be honest with me. Do I need to be sending my mother out of town for a few days?”

He shakes his head hurriedly. “No, no- really. There’s nothing. That I know of, I mean, I haven’t checked the newspapers.”

She leans back. “Oh. But- you’re still, you know, doing this? Fighting these things?”

“Yeah,” he says. Though it’s been a while since he fought a racist truck. “Sort of. I mean. Sam and I, we’re trying a new thing, kind of a semi-retirement. Taking a break. I don’t know. He’s got a girl, and I’m… trying to settle down a little.”

“Really? That’s… I don’t know what to say, Dean. That’s wonderful.”

“Yeah, I guess. It’s new.”

She focuses her gaze on him. “You’re doing okay, then? I… you didn’t seem so well, last time I saw you. That must have been – god, nine years ago. Ten?”

“Something like that,” he says. He takes a drag of the beer. “I worried you might have moved.”

“Nah, I’m still here.” She looks around the kitchen, a frown curling her lips. “I guess I got stuck. Too settled, maybe. And then I met Caleb.”

“You’re married?” He straightens.

“Yes. Dean, I couldn’t wait around for you forever, and he and I-”

“Cassie, that’s fantastic!” He wants to sweep her up in a hug – the old him would have – but the energy between them isn’t there. “When? For how long?”

“Seven years. He’s in town right now, but if you’re staying for lunch you could meet him, or-”

“No, I can’t, but thanks. I have to get home. And you and your _husband_ , wow, holy shit. That’s great, Cas, really great.” The nickname slips out before he realizes it. It almost makes him drop his beer. Because _shit_ , maybe there’s a reason he’s coming here, to a girl named Cassie.

“Home?” She looks up.

He blinks, recognizes his other mistake. “Oh- yeah. Um. We’ve got a place.”

“When? For how long?” It echoes his own words.

“Uh, well, I’ve been living there semi-regularly for about six months. About the time I spent in Atlanta, with you. But this seems- I think it might be permanent.”

“Dean, that’s really good. Really good for you. Where are you living?”

“Kansas. Lebanon. Not too far, actually.”

She laughs. “So you really were in the neighborhood.”

“Yeah, more or less. Look, I want to hear more about you. And this guy, Caleb. He good? He treating you well?” Somehow this is easy – easier than he expected. He feels the stress of Castiel melting from his mind. Dean’s never been one for small talk, but being with Cassie feels good.

But really, it keeps reminding him of Cas, too. Seeing Cassie now, he realizes that he really is over her. There is one person for him now.

And she’s on the same track. “He’s… he’s really wonderful, Dean. He’s a doctor.”

“’Course.” Dean snorts. “Saving lives the good and legal way, huh?”

“It’s not like _that_ , I just-”

“It’s fine, Cassie.” He waves her off with a hand. “I’m happy for you. Really, I am. You deserve that.”

“And you- what about you, Dean? Do you… I mean, hunting isn’t that compatible with romance, you always said-”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. He picks at the label on the beer bottle. “Yeah, I’ve got someone.”

“What’s her name?” Cassie sees the sensitivity of the matter, and her voice goes soft.

“Cas,” he says. He considers correcting her, but- well. Dean’s not really comfortable with that part of himself, the part that might not just like girls. So far it’s just Cas, really, but- well, and Cas isn’t really a _guy_ , but he looks like one. And Dean isn’t complaining about that, which is- weird. And new. But good. He wouldn’t want Cas any different. It’s still weird to admit to it, though, both to himself and to others.

Cassie laughs. “Cas. Really? You’ve got a type, I think.”

“Maybe,” he laughs. “I dunno. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how? Does she know about, you know…”

“Yeah. Yeah, and that’s not- that’s not the issue. I dunno. I’m just… trying to sort my shit out. And Cas isn’t making it much easier. I dunno. It’s a work-in-progress, I guess.”

“Do you love her?” Cassie asks. Dean doesn’t meet her eyes – he knows what they’ll look like, soft and brown and compassionate, and he doesn’t think he can handle that right now.

Dean stays silent, and lets that speak for him.

“Have you told her?”

He shakes his head. Keeps looking at the beer bottle.

“You should tell her. You should go home right now and tell her.”

“No, I mean.” He hesitates. This feels deceitful. And being with Cas, at least, always feels honest to Dean. He doesn’t wanna mess that up now. “He, uh. He knows.”

He hears Cassie’s intake of breath, can imagine the surprise on her face. She handles it well.

“That’s new,” she says mildly.

He chuckles. “You’re telling me.”

“Is that, um, is that the issue?” She’s trying so hard to be polite, god bless her.

“No, that’s not it. That’s fine. It’s just. Well.” Dean tries to find an easy way to say this. “He was kind of brainwashed into trying to kill me.”

“Oh,” she says. “Right.”

“There was other stuff, too, but- yesterday, we started talking about that, and- I dunno. I guess I just needed to get away for a bit.”

“Hence the trip to Missouri.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a long silence. He imagines she’s still reeling from the Cas revelation. Maybe he is too.

“I’m glad you’re happy,” she says. It’s far from the truth, but he knows she means well. “I’m glad you’ve found someone. Someone who can keep up with your lifestyle.”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, he’s part of it, so.” He thinks about mentioning the angel thing, but decides she’s still grappling with the fact that Cas is a guy. She doesn’t need to know he’s an ex-celestial being too. Besides, Cassie seems content with her minimal knowledge of the supernatural world. Angels are kind of a big deal.

“Dean,” she says, “why are you really here?”

He thinks about that for a long time. He liked Cassie in the first place because she made him think. “You know, you were the last person I loved. I guess I wanted to see for myself that- I guess I wanted to be sure. That this is the right thing for me. That Cas is the right _one_ for me.”

“And is he?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, he is.”

She smiles, just with her lips, and now she’s got that twinkle in her eye again. “Dean, it was lovely to see you again, it really was. And I’d love it if you came back sometime. But right now, you should really go home.”

“Yeah,” he says, “I guess I should.”

She walks him to the door. She kisses his cheek, and there’s none of that old lust there. “Pick up a phone sometime, will you?”

“Sure, Cas. I mean, Cassie.”

“You’ve got someone else on your mind, I think.” She laughs. “Get going, Dean.”

“Thanks, Cassie. I mean it.” He takes one last moment to look at her, really look at her. God, she’s changed. But then, so has he.

He goes back to his car, and he drives towards Kansas.

 **

Halfway to the border, Dean’s phone starts ringing. He fumbles in his pockets, thumbs slipping over the buttons as he tries to accept the call. His contacts are all unlabeled in case the phone falls into the wrong hands, but Dean recognizes the number as Cas’s.

“Hey,” he says.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, hey.”

“Where _are_ you?”

Dean’s fingers clench on the wheel. “I’m, uh, in Missouri.”

“ _Missouri_?”

There’s a pause, and Dean laughs nervously.

“And you didn’t think of maybe _telling_ me? When you drove off, no note, nothing?” Cas’s voice is getting louder, getting into the notes of hysteria. Dean curses and pulls the car over to the roadside.

“Look, Cas, I just needed some air-”

“I don’t _care_ what you needed! You should have told me you were going! Or told Sam, or anything! You can’t just _do_ that, Dean!”

“Do what? I didn’t think you’d even notice,” Dean snaps, knowing it’s not really true.

“Well, the Bunker’s pretty damn empty without you.”

“It’s emptier with me,” Dean mutters.

Cas doesn’t hear. “What were you thinking?” he says, and he sounds angry. Really angry. Dean wonders if maybe he didn’t think this through.

“Why do you even fucking _care_ , Cas?” Dean says, even though somewhere, he knows.

Cas loses his shit, screams at him over the phone line for it. Tells Dean that communication is a two-way road. Says, “You can’t go off on your own without telling me first. I need to know where you are, I need to know that you’re safe.”

That shocks Dean into silence. He finally manages a hoarse, “Why?”

The phone line crackles with Castiel’s grumpiness. “You know why. You talk about needing me, but you never stop and think that maybe I need you too?”

Dean feels his heart crash into the walls of his chest. In the crypt, he used the word “need” because it was close enough, because it got the point across, because he couldn’t fit his mouth around the _other_ word. Maybe Cas is having the same problem.

Maybe that’s it. They’ve been having the same problems all along, and Dean’s been too wrapped up in his head to notice. Cas has been reaching out all along.

Dean knows he has dependency issues. And he’s so fixated on this idea of being _undeserving_ that he can’t even conceive a world where someone might need him too. A world where someone might want him by their side.

He realizes he’s left Cas alone in the silence. Cas’s breathing is heavy over the line, but when he speaks again, it’s with a degree of calm. “Come home. I want you to come home, I want you to stay. With me.”

No. No. Those are the words. Those are _his_ words, and Cas took them up like new flowers, like they could bloom in anyone’s hands. Dean knows those words; he’s tried to say them so many times. He’s failed to say them so many times.

And here is Cas, holding them out like a fucking bouquet.

“I am,” Dean says, voice rough around the words. He swallows. “I’m on my way.”

“Good,” Cas says, and the line clicks.

He doesn’t know for how long he sits on the side of that road. The cars pass and pass and Dean stares out at the horizon. Somewhere out there, holed up in a Bunker under the ground, Cas is waiting for him. And Dean realizes, somewhat belatedly, that that’s the first time Cas called the Bunker _home_.

He drives twenty miles over the speed limit the whole way there.

 **

When Dean comes in, keys jangling in the lock, Sam is waiting for him. He looks like the disapproving parent, arms crossed and eyebrows at his hairline.

“You scared us,” Sam says, but Dean is already talking over him.

“Yeah, I know, I get it, I’m sorry. Won’t happen again.”

“Where were you?”

Dean drops his duffel at his feet. “Drove around for a while. Missouri. Just needed some space.”

“You should have told one of us. Dean, you know how important that is, with the life we lead. We had no idea what happened to you.”

Dean kicks his feet together, busies himself with the hem of his coat. “I went to see Cassie,” he says.

He can hear Sam’s surprise, the way his body shifts. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, that’s- Cassie Robinson? _The_ Cassie?”

“ _The_ Cassie.”

“What-”

“Have you seen Cas?”

Sam stills, shoulders dropping. “Yeah, he’s in his room.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, and heads that way. He brushes against Sam as he goes by.

“Dean,” Sam calls after him, and he pauses to turn.

“Yeah?”

Sam’s eyes go unexpectedly soft. He smiles a melty smile. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

Dean offers him a smile of his own. The affection between them swells momentarily, then ebbs. He turns to find Castiel.

The door to Cas’s bedroom is closed – locked, in fact. As usual. And Dean realizes then, in the weeks that they’ve been here, he’s not once seen Cas’s room. They’ve kept to neutral zones – until yesterday.

He knocks lightly, and hears the shuffling of feet as Cas comes to the door. He has this expectant look on his face when he opens the door, blue eyes wide. It only holds for a second before falling away to his usual poker face.

“Oh,” he says. “Hello, Dean.”

“Hey,” Dean says, because _fuck_ , this is more awkward than he thought it’d be. That’s how it always is with Cas. But he can push through that. “Um. Can I come in?”

Cas turns and walks back in, letting Dean follow him. The room is bare like Sam’s, few decorations and little furniture. His old trenchcoat hangs on a coatrack in the corner, and there’s a plate of half-eaten toast on the dresser. The bed is a mess of tangled sheets.

He doesn’t know what to say. He stares at Cas, at the stubble on his chin. He grasps for words. “You need a shave, dude.”

Cas raises one eyebrow. His mouth sets into a heavy line. “Are you offering a hand?”

The last time Dean shaved Cas, the air was clean between them. It had been a good day. Maybe having some familiarity will dissolve the awkwardness once more. “Sure. I guess. Right now?”

They cross to the bathroom. Dean gets his gear out, pleased by the calming cool of the room. There was something unsettling about Cas’s bedroom, but he can’t put his finger on it.

Cas leans against the sink, watching expectantly. He tilts his head to just the right angle when Dean reaches out.

“You’ve got a good memory,” Dean murmurs. “Pretty soon, I bet you can do this on your own.”

“I won’t want to,” says Cas. It’s so sure, so calm. Cas is so certain in his feelings. _Fuck_. Dean feels like he’s fumbling around in the dark. A fool by comparison.

Silence between them. Dean spends several minutes building up the courage to ask a question. “Cas. Those words you said, over the phone. Could you say them again?”

He feels Castiel’s eyes fixed on his face. He keeps his own fixed on the razor in his hands.

“I need you,” Cas says. It rings in his ears, in his mind, in his body and soul.

“Okay,” Dean says, and takes a shaky breath, “okay. I can deal with that. But Cas, I don’t have anything to give you. I mean. There’s nothing here.”

“Will you put aside your self-loathing pity-party for a moment,” says Cas, voice low and dangerous, “and just accept that I need _you_? That I want to be here, with _you_? That maybe that is all I’ve wanted since day one?”

“I’m not-”

“You _are_. You are exactly what I need. Is it that hard to understand?”

“But you always leave,” Dean blurts, because that’s what he’s been thinking for hours, that’s what he’s been unable to voice.

“Not this time,” says Cas.

Dean’s hand shakes, and he pulls the razor away before he risks hurting Cas. He stumbles to the next sink to rinse it clean. Cas stays in his own space.

“I want you here too,” Dean says, and he pinches his eyes closed until he sees spots. “I really want you here. _Need_ you here. It was never because of your powers, or your strength. Just because you’re human doesn’t mean you’re useless to me.”

Cas goes very, very quiet. Dean doesn’t open his eyes, too afraid to see the reaction. God, they’re so fucking scared of each other. They don’t have to be. They’re supposed to be in love but instead they’re dancing around their words and trembling at each other’s touch.

Dean clenches his hands on the side of the sink and looks at his own eyes in the mirror. “Cas,” he says, “if you really are sticking around, why is your room so empty?”

Cas shifts, hands moving in the peripheral of Dean’s vision. With a note of amusement playing under his words, he says, “It’s not what you think it is.”

“Yeah? Then what is it?”

“I suppose I just assumed… I assumed when I came here that I’d be sleeping in your room.”

“Oh,” Dean says, and he steps back from the sink. “ _Oh_.” He looks at Cas, finally, eyes going wide. Cas looks back, and his lips are fighting a smile. “You mean you and I- and so you didn’t- you wanted to- _oh_.”

Cas huffs. “Yeah. In retrospect it seems a little forward. I should have known things wouldn’t be that easy between us, not after everything that’s happened. But I wanted them to be.”

“Cas, I can’t,” Dean says, and swallows. “I can’t do that. I’m not ready for that.” Christ, he still flinches when Cas comes near him, thinking of the crypt. He can’t imagine sharing a bed.

(He can’t imagine what he’d do, waking up every morning with Cas beside him. Waking up with their heartbeats synced together. So close that Cas’s breath fills Dean’s lungs.)

It would be too much. It would overwhelm him. He’s not ready for that.

Cas looks down at his hands, but he’s still smiling. “It’s fine, I figured that out for myself. Just- when you think you are…”

Dean doesn’t know when that will be. But he thinks, between the two of them, they have the will to get there. To slog through the mud until they get there. Until things get easy. Easier.

“I think I can finish this myself,” Cas says, rubbing at his half-shaved jaw. Dean blinks, looks down at the razor besides the sink, and realizes he’d forgotten why they were here.

“You- can you?”

“Can you trust me to?”

“Yeah, uh. Yeah. Be careful.” Dean straightens, steps away from the sinks.

“I will.” He reaches for the razor. “So I’m going to finish shaving. And in the meantime, would you make me lunch?”

“Would I-” _Oh_. He feels himself go lightheaded. “Hell yeah, I would.”

 **

When Cas steps into the kitchen, clean-shaven, Dean is stirring tomato-rice soup over the stove.

“Hey,” he says, “you look good.” Not something he would have said out loud a week ago. “Didn’t nick yourself?”

Castiel stops in the center of the kitchen, all that empty space around him, and looks at Dean. “I’ve existed as a wavelength of celestial intent for thousands of years. I’ve fought in more wars than your human brain can comprehend. I battled my way through Hell for you, and then again for your brother. I can handle a five-inch blade, Dean.”

Dean laughs, because he’s in a good mood right now. He’s cooking for Cas. “Sure, sure. You want a sandwich?”

“You want to make me one, so yes.” Right. This is what it is now. This is compromise and accommodation and listening to each other. Dean can work with this.

Cas watches Dean cook from his spot in the center of the kitchen, hands hanging loosely at his sides. Dean tries not to be distracted by the eyes following him, but it’s Cas, so.

They eat in the library, across from each other, a stack of Sam’s books between them. Cas makes noises of appreciation around the sandwich that Dean’s pretty certain haven’t been faked for his benefit.

“Home-cooked food, man. There’s nothing like it.” Dean smiles at him, watches him eat. Feels something swell in his chest that isn’t happiness, but is maybe… contentment.

They eat in silence. Dean picks through the soup and thinks of his mother. For years, he’s worried about what she would think of him. If she would be disappointed in him, or in his life. He thinks she would have wanted more for him.

But now, for the first time in years - maybe _ever –_ Dean thinks, if his mom saw him here, she’d be happy. She’d be proud. He has something good here, something safe.

Cas sets his hands on the table. “When you left, I thought maybe you’d found a hunt. So I went looking for what that could be. I found something, in South Dakota. Don’t know what it is, but it seems like your kind of job. If you’re interested, we could get Sam and-”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “yeah. That’d be good. Start small.” Because he wants to take a break, he really does, but hunting is addictive, and saving lives is important, and Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever give it up entirely. He likes that Cas understands that.

“I don’t think it needs three people,” Cas continues.

“Maybe not,” Dean says, “but we’d like your company. We’ve always worked better, the three of us.”

Cas snorts, and okay, maybe it’s not _entirely_ true, but it’s close. Dean’s always worked better with Cas and Sam at his side.

“We could visit Jody, too,” Dean says. “You think she’d like that? I’d sure like to see her.”

Dean needs to work on reaching out to everyone, really, not just Cas. He’s got friends, good ones, and he gets too caught up in hunting to notice them. Charlie, and Jody, and Garth and Kevin. Krissy, even. He could make something of this life, of the Bunker. Make it a safe place for everyone, not just for him.

So yeah, he’ll start small. He’ll start with Jody and a hunt in South Dakota.

“This is it, huh?” He huffs a laugh. “This is our life now.”

A smile quirks at the corner of Cas’s mouth. He tugs at the crust of his sandwich. “And so they lived happily ever after.”

Dean makes a face. “I don’t know about the _happy_ part.”

“And we won’t get an _ever after_ , I suppose,” Cas adds. He cocks his head to the side, thoughtful. “Then I amend my original statement: and so they lived.”

Dean laughs. He reaches across to take Cas’s hand, a white flag in their fight. “And so they lived,” he agrees.

It’s the best ending he could have hoped for.

 

 

 

 

 

.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh. Okay. Here we are, aren't we?  
> This has been a long time coming. I've been working on this story since March; I've put a lot of energy and love into it. So first of all, I want to thank you for reading.
> 
> Next, of course, I want to thank my fantastic artist, [Kirsty](http://foxesliketoast.tumblr.com/). We were both new this year and it could not have been a better experience. I was so lucky to get to work with you. Your art is phenomenal and I am flattered to have it alongside my writing. Thank you for everything!  
> Thank you to my betas, [Tasha](http://kraziiisme.tumblr.com/) and Hannah. Obviously, I couldn't have done this without you. Thanks for everything, babes.
> 
> This was the highlight of the summer.


End file.
